Victim of Memory

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Written by Ian Samuels
Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Last Updated ( Friday, 23 March 2007 )

The voluptuous blue-eyed, large chested blonde lay naked on her bed. The pink nipples on her ample chest were still hard and erect after their sexual exertions. Sweat had covered her breasts and ran down the sensual valley between them. But now, her chest is covered in blood, her blood spilt in a frenzied attack. The knife comes down again to pierce her breast to spill more blood, although, she was already dead. The blood had spilt from the gapping wounds in her, once ample, breasts spreading far, covering her chest, her narrow neck and it had been smeared over her, fear stricken, face. The blood had soaked into the white silk sheets she had put on clean that morning. Her blonde hair was a matted mess coated with the blood, which had stained the, once, white puffed pillow.

The knife bearer ceases his butchery and departs the crimson stained scene, but he had made an error. This time an eyewitness, who knew him, had seen him with the buxom, blue-eyed, blonde victim. After two months of bloody murder scenes. After having to write up detailed reports of each scene. After having to wade through the sickening photos of the ghastly scenes each day. The Police would, finally, have him.

The young thirty-two year old, 5 ft 11, Detective Sergeant, Simon (Thomo) Thompson pulls up outside the station in his second hand, brown, 1978 Ford Capri. It was in need of a clean; as was Thompson he hadn't shaven or bathed in about three days. He had always had a problem with getting up in the morning. When in College he turned up late for every lecture, even those in the afternoon, which was probably why he didn't get into University. Of course, that annoyed his Father intently. His Father owned his own business, which was terribly successful; he had been through University and expected Simon to do likewise. So as a way of rebelling against his middle class Father, he decided to apply to the Police College at Hendon. He even dropped part of his name; his Father's middle class way had bought upon them the double-barrelled name Thompson-Arronfield. To infuriate his Father even more he chose his Mother's name. He found climbing to the rank of Detective-Sergeant the easiest ride of his life and was now on, probably, the force's biggest case since Jack the Ripper, but he had to work under the most irritating, condescending man he was ever likely to meet. Detective Chief Inspector Garfield Jeffries, a 6 ft 5 giant, very, dark skinned almost, totally, black, this was topped by an over zealously shaven head, which showed little of his black hair, much of which, now, was grey.

Thompson decides he’d better be ready for Jeffries as he is already twenty minutes late. He looks at himself in the rear view mirror, his messy army-short blonde hair with a downy blonde beard, framed his drawn face, his teeth have yellowed and his sapphire blue eyes are bloodshot, all in all not a pretty sight. He decides he has had enough of the view and drags himself out of the car. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the police station. He steps in onto the pristine white tiled floor and looks around at the pristine white tiled walls. The walls and floors were always sparkling, cleaned by middle-aged women in flowery pinnies who worked hours before Simon Thompson ever arrived. As he starts to make his way across past the wooden reception desk, flanked by notice boards adorned with "Have You Seen This Man" posters and such like, and on towards the double doors at the end looking up at the plaque above, 'The Cleanest Police Station in Britain' award. Before he has the chance to open the double doors he is halted by a gruff Yorkshire voice, emanating from reception. Thompson turns round to face the reception desk, behind which stands the 5 ft 6, overweight form of the middle-aged desk Sergeant, Charley. His uniform jacket hangs open revealing his crisp, white, starched shirt, putting Thompson to shame, although his ample waistline hanging over the front of his trousers let him down. Charley is commonly known at the station as, Santa. This was due not only to his size and shape, but also his curly white hair, and impressive white beard along with his love of children, particularly, his eight grandchildren and his annual part, dressed up as Father Christmas for the local Church Hall. As Thompson approaches the desk, Charley offers him a white card; it is the size and shape of a standard business card. As Thompson takes it he notices the address scrawled on it.

"Get down there." Charley says pointing to the card. "Jeffries is there waiting for you. He's not in a good mood."

"Is He ever? Thanks Santa." Thompson replies, he then turns and walks out of the station and goes back to his car.

* * *

Thompson turns into the street, which was named on the card that Charley had given him; he hadn't been down this end of town before. The entire street was made up of two continuous lines of narrow 3-storey terraced houses, most had been converted into flats, although originally made from red brick, the whole street now looked a dull brown colour and ready to collapse at any moment. Thompson pulls up outside the house that had a number of Police officers outside. He shuts off his engine and clambers out, as he steps out the light of the day is blocked out by the large dark form of D.I. Garfield Jeffries. The imposing figure stands before Thompson blocking his view of the front door of the house.

"Late as usual Thompson." Jeffries' commanding voice booms across the small space between the two men, his comment was not a question. He makes it sound more like a reprimand.

"Sorry Sir, car wouldn't start." Thompson uses his normal pathetic excuse.

"Is that still the best you can come up with, you should really try to come up with something new, why don't you talk to Constable Wright, now there’s a man with a catalogue of excuses."

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir." Jeffries makes him feel like a berated schoolboy.

"Stop grovelling Thompson; now this guy is dangerous, he's the one whose been killing all these women, it has been decided that he is so dangerous that we have to have a marksman on the scene, he has orders too shoot if he tries anything. Personally I think it's over the top, but that's our orders, to make thing worse they have chosen Simms!"

Thompson looks over at the blonde, blue-eyed, Simms, arrogance seemed to ooze from every pore of Simms' body, he stands with his fixed overbearing grin, polishing his rifle like it was a well-loved family heirloom.

Thompson returns his gaze to Jeffries and says, “But Simms is a loose-cannon, Sir, he's dangerous!"

"Well I agree, but he seems to be the Chief's blue-eyed boy at the moment and is being given every possible chance, anyway I'm sure he won’t be necessary, because I have volunteered you to go up and get the suspect."

Jeffries steps out of Thompson's way, beckoning him towards the front door. The officers outside the building had sorted themselves out. The front door is flanked by two uniformed officers and another was inside.

"Top floor, Thompson." Jeffries calls as a means of helping out as Thompson had yet to move.

"Thanks Sir." Thompson replies and begins to make his way to the door.

As Thompson enters the building the first thing that strikes him is the state of the property. The paint on the walls and ceiling is peeling, the floor is bare stone and Thompson couldn't help but notice the strong smell of ammonia. He starts towards the lift but notices a sign on the graffiti covered doors, 'OUT OF ORDER.'

"Oh Shit." Sighs Thompson and starts up the stairs, making his ascent he finds himself gagging, shit had recently been smeared on the wall, he continues carefully avoiding the wall and banister, he wasn't sure of that, either. A few steps from the top floor Thompson pauses, trying to get his breath back before facing the officer who was undoubtedly standing dutifully outside the door to the flat. Thompson takes the final steps to the top landing, the door to the flat is open and to one side is a tall uniformed officer who was familiar to Thompson. Blue-green eyes, blonde hair, and he had also grown a light beard, lately. He stands to attention holding his helmet under his arm and as Thompson approaches.

"In there, is he Wright?"

"Yes Sir." replies the young constable.

Thompson steps into the flat and Wright relaxes. Thompson finds his nasal passages assaulted again, this time from tobacco smoke and a strong smell of stale lager, fighting not to choke against the smog, his eyes begin to water, by the time he manages to fish out a clean handkerchief from his pocket his eyes have begun to stream, coupled with the sound of 'Duke of Earl' pounding his ears, from the music system, it seems as if it was on a continuous loop. Dabbing his eyes and shielding his ears he begins to pick up other sounds within the flat, he can hear a bird chirping and a man sobbing, he sees the man through the smog he is wearing an ill-fitting grey pinstripe suit, the trousers of the suit didn't reach his ankles, the arms of the jacket did likewise to his wrists, under the jacket his trousers are held up by a stripy pair of braces which can be seen over the white T-shirt he is also wearing. Sitting in a grubby armchair which has stuffing and springs sticking out of it in all directions the man sits sobbing into his hands, an abandoned cigarette, still smoking, sits in the ashtray on the arm of the chair. The man was talking, quietly, almost whispering to himself. Thompson leans closer trying to hear, through the din, what he is saying, he listens intently, it sounds like he is saying something, over and over again.

"I don't know how...? I don't know why...? I've never done anything like it before... Never thought I could... but I did... I did kill those women... didn’t I?" Thompson finds himself feeling sorry for the man; he knew what Jeffries would say.
"Thompson, he's a murderer. All criminals are the scum of the earth. "

Thompson approaches the dispirited man, takes him gently by his upper arm helping him to his feet, leading the man out of the flat. As they start the descent, Wright falls in behind them, at the bottom they approach the front door, Thompson calls to the Constables outside the door. “We’re coming out!”

The man speaks to Thompson in a weak, anguished voice. "Do you think I could smoke?" He asks.

"Go ahead." Thompson replies, as they step outside the man reaches inside his jacket. Across the street Constable Joe Simms sees Thompson and the arrested man who is reaching inside his jacket for his cigarettes. Simms takes aim, preparing himself then his expression changes to his familiar arrogant grin, a shot rings out. The man falls back into Thompson’s arms. The man try's to speak to Thompson so he lowers his head closer to try to hear him.

"He's gone now. He was in my head, but now he's gone." The victim’s last words ring through Thompson's ears as he watches him die. Thompson looks across the street only for his gaze to be met by Simms' arrogant grin.

* * *
As soon as they return to the station Thompson and Simms are ordered to The Chief Superintendent’s office, Thompson knocks on the door adorned with Chief Superintendent Wilde's nameplate and waits to be called. As he enters the familiar surroundings with the plaques, awards and Police historic memorabilia including a collection of badges giving visual evidence of the force's history around the walls, Thompson is surprised to find Simms already in attendance and standing to attention, behind his desk the rotund, balding, bespectacled Chief Super sits in his bow tie and dinner jacket shaking his head in disbelief, even though he had invited Thompson in after he had knocked, the Chief Super looks up and as if only just noticing Thompson's presence says, "Ah Thompson, there you are. Now tell me what happened as far as you see it. And make it quick Sergeant, I'm having dinner with the Home Secretary this evening."
"Well D.I. Jeffries requested of me to retrieve the murderer from his abode and bring him down to the street so he could be bought down here to the station. So I retrieved the man and lead him from the building, followed by Constable Wright. As we were exiting the building the man asked me if it would be alright for him to have cigarette, I answered in the affirmative, I saw no problem with it. He reached into his jacket to retrieve his cigarettes from his inside pocket, it was then that Simms fired, shooting the man, totally unprovoked."

"Yes, Well we'll see about that Simms, now you, why did you shoot the man?"

Simms looks at Thompson. Thompson could sense the smile on Simms' lips even if it wasn't actually there. Simms straightens and turns back to the Chief Super.

"When I saw the man reach into his jacket,” Simms spoke with an air of defiant authority, “I assumed that he was going for a weapon, a gun."

That was it, Thompson had enough of Simms' lying and arrogance and so turns on him.

"A gun?! A gun Simms?! He wanted a fag. The man was stressed for fuck sake. He just wanted a smoke. You're not a Policeman Simms, you're nothing but a damn assassin!"

The Chief Super stands to his full 5 ft 6 height and holds out his hands. "That's enough Thompson. Now gentlemen, Thompson I believe that Simms believed he was doing the right thing at the time."

"That's not good enough!" Thompson shouts. He takes a deep breath. "I'm owed some holiday time, Sir. I wish a month’s holiday starting Monday."

"Good idea Thompson that will give you a chance to calm down, I will see to it straight away, you are dismissed I've got to get ready."

* * *

Peace reigns supreme once more in the town of Brochmoor after two, bloody, fearful months the Police finally seemed to have got something right, the whispers on the street corners, in corner shops and W.I. meetings died down after only a week. But Thompson could find no peace inside his head. His break from work was rapidly becoming the worst time of his life, he was finding sleep difficult and when it did come it was far from pleasant or relaxing, he tosses and turns in a haunted sleep he finds himself seeing through the eyes of the murderer. He looks down on the bed, no covers just white sheets, on the bed lies a naked woman, blonde blue eyed, a mole under her left eye, full red lips and full chested. Thompson recognises her immediately as the killer's first victim, remembering her face from the first of the series of horrific photos. The woman smiles and beckons for him to join her, he sees a knife in his hand as he starts to hack at her breasts with the blade, the vision becomes stained with her blood; her screams subside into a bloody gurgling from her throat. The blade's assault halts and Thompson wakes, he finds his muscular body wet and clammy with sweat, breathing heavily Thompson reaches up to wipe sweat from his forehead. As he returns his hand to the warm place beneath the quilt he finds there his erect penis, sickened Thompson gags and lurches from his bed and hurtles towards the toilet, he charges through the door which flies back as it rebounds off the radiator sending a deafening clang throughout the building's central heating system, undoubtedly waking every resident, except for the old man upstairs who was practically deaf and the unemployed depressed insomniac across the hall from Thompson who never slept. Thompson's body heaves as he empties his stomach into the lavatory bowl.

"My God," he breathes, as he finishes his vomiting. "How could I be turned-on by such a disgusting sight?"

The following nights are no different for Thompson, agonisingly forced to witness the killing of each of the murderers consecutive victims, one after the other, night after night, and always viewed through the eyes of that evil bastard. Thompson still had another two weeks holiday to suffer before returning to work so he decides to see a psychoanalyst.

* * *

Thompson lay outstretched on the Analyst's couch waiting for his first session to begin; he looks around at the diplomas and plaques that adorn the walls of the analyst’s office including the diploma of psychology from the University of Vienna. That brought images of Freud to Thompson's mind and a smile to his face, probably the first time he had smiled in over two weeks, Thompson turns to the bespectacled, white bearded, white haired sexagenarian analyst, looking at him Thompson could almost believe it was Freud, which Thompson actually finds quite comforting. Finally, when the Analyst speaks Thompson can't believe his ears, it is an Austrian accent.

"Now, tell me Mr. Thompson, what seems to be the problem?"

"Nightmares, terrible nightmares." Thompson replies after taking a deep breathe, he shifts uncomfortably, was it enough information, had he said enough, had he said too much, soon his questions are answered, the Analyst shifts in his chair ready to write in his note book.

"If I am to help you Mr. Thompson I need more information. Now take you mind back, back to the beginning and start there."

Thompson begins to feel increasingly stupid, just start at the beginning, why didn't he think of that? He pauses for thought and after another deep breath he starts again.

"Well I'm a Detective Sergeant in the Police. I was working with Detective Inspector Jeffries on a murder case." A pause and another breath. "This guy was picking up girls in bars, he liked big chested girls, anyway he'd take them back to their place and make love too them all night, then in the morning he would take out a knife and hack them to pieces. He'd always started with the breasts, he loved that, turned him on, lots of blood, you see, anyway we finally managed to identify him. After two months he gave himself up, he was completely out of his mind, you see, and he couldn't take it anymore, as we were coming out of his place he wanted a fag, but when he reached into his jacket the marksman we had across the street, shot him. As the guy fell I caught him. He whispered to me as he lay dying. He said, ‘He's gone now, he was in my head but he's gone.’ I didn't know what he meant, but I reckoned that he was a schitz and he was on about the side of him that told him to kill, I dunno. Then I took some time off, but all the time I have been on leave I have been having these horrific nightmares. I have witnessed all the murders one after the other, night after night and always through the eyes of the murderer. They seriously freaked me out, that is of course why I called you."

As Thompson lays expectantly all he hears is the beating of his heart, the ticking of a clock and the scratching of the Analyst's pencil as he scribbles his notes, finally after what seemed like an eternity the Analysts Austrian voice breaks the silence.

"You said that the murderer, became sexually excited by what he did, tell me Mr. Thompson were you aroused by what you saw?"

"Of course not! How could anyone be turned-on by such ghastly sights?!" Thompson shouts in reply. The Analyst sits quietly waiting for Thompson to continue, Thompson pauses for another breath and continues. "Well, it did, the first time I woke up with a hard-... I mean an erection, I didn't realise at first, but when I did it made me vomit. It was the same each time, well, except that I kind of got used to it so, after a while it didn't make me sick." The Analyst skillfully utilises another lengthy pause before he finally replies.

"Ok Mr. Thompson. We haven't anymore time. Make an appointment with my secretary for the same time next week on your way out. I will see you then Mr. Thompson. Goodbye." Even though the abruptness and finality of the unexpected reply shocks him, Thompson gets off the couch and leaves without argument.
* * *

Soon Thompson had gone through every murder, he had seen each one in Gore-rious Technicolor, but it didn't stop the nightmares. His mind forms a collection of images from all the murder scenes culminating in a collage of bloody images.

As Thompson wakes a strange feeling comes over him. He grips his erection hard and begins to pump, wanking himself off, grunting through gritted teeth he pumps harder and harder, faster and faster, as he comes he continues to pump, wanking every last drop of cum out, it runs down the back of his hand before dripping onto the sheet. So each morning Thompson would wank himself dry, finally one morning after his morning wank, he rubs his sore wrist and decides it was time he started picking up girls again.

* * *
As Thompson makes his way for his second session with the Analyst he thinks about his situation, now he had a guaranteed hard-on every morning and decided to put it to good use preferably on a different girl every night, he could now enjoy the dreams and they were useful, i.e. the hard-on every morning, so what does he need an Analyst for he decides to tell the Analyst that he no longer needs him. Thompson sits in the reception area waiting his time in the Analyst's chair, every time he looks up he gets a friendly smile from the plump, brunette receptionist, he nervously flicks through a magazine he had picked up from the table, he wasn't reading it, he didn't even know the title of the magazine. Soon he sees the previous patient exit the Doctor's office, Thompson is called in. He takes a deep breath, he doesn't approach the couch, but goes straight to the analyst’s desk and before the Analyst has a chance to speak Thompson blurts out his thoughts.

"I'm ok now Doc., I don't need you. The dreams don't freak me out anymore, in fact I thought that having a guaranteed hard-on every morning could be quiet entertaining, so I have decided to put it to good use, thanks Doc."

With that Thompson quickly leaves the building. He couldn't believe he had just blurted everything out without even a thought for the consequences, but as he believed it was unlikely he would see the Analyst again it didn't really matter. As he walks back to his apartment he sees a beautiful woman walking along on the other side of the road, not unlike other young men he begins to form an image in his mind, the tall elegant blue eyed, full chested blonde lays naked in bed, Thompson kneads her large, full breasts as he makes love to her, but the image changes as he sees a knife in his hand and he starts to hack at her breasts he watches the blood fly and flow freely from her wounds. Thompson becomes turned on by his bloody fantasy, the woman passes by and Thompson smiles.

*                                               *                                               *

Soon Thompson had gone through every murder, he had seen each one in Gore-rious Technicolor, but it didn't stop the nightmares. His mind forms a collection of images from all the murder scenes culminating in a collage of bloody images.

As Thompson wakes a strange feeling comes over him. He grips his erection hard and begins to pump, wanking himself off, grunting through gritted teeth he pumps harder and harder, faster and faster, as he comes he continues to pump, wanking every last drop of cum out, it runs down the back of his hand before dripping onto the sheet. So each morning Thompson would wank himself dry, finally one morning after his morning wank, he rubs his sore wrist and decides it was time he started picking up girls again.

*                                               *                                               *
As Thompson makes his way for his second session with the Analyst he thinks about his situation, now he had a guaranteed hard-on every morning and decided to put it to good use preferably on a different girl every night, he could now enjoy the dreams and they were useful, i.e. the hard-on every morning, so what does he need an Analyst for he decides to tell the Analyst that he no longer needs him. Thompson sits in the reception area waiting his time in the Analyst's chair, every time he looks up he gets a friendly smile from the plump, brunette receptionist, he nervously flicks through a magazine he had picked up from the table, he wasn't reading it, he didn't even know the title of the magazine. Soon he sees the previous patient exit the Doctor's office, Thompson is called in. He takes a deep breath, he doesn't approach the couch, but goes straight to the analyst’s desk and before the Analyst has a chance to speak Thompson blurts out his thoughts.

"I'm ok now Doc., I don't need you. The dreams don't freak me out anymore, in fact I thought that having a guaranteed hard-on every morning could be quiet entertaining, so I have decided to put it to good use, thanks Doc."

With that Thompson quickly leaves the building. He couldn't believe he had just blurted everything out without even a thought for the consequences, but as he believed it was unlikely he would see the Analyst again it didn't really matter. As he walks back to his apartment he sees a beautiful woman walking along on the other side of the road, not unlike other young men he begins to form an image in his mind, the tall elegant blue eyed, full chested blonde lays naked in bed, Thompson kneads her large, full breasts as he makes love to her, but the image changes as he sees a knife in his hand and he starts to hack at her breasts he watches the blood fly and flow freely from her wounds. Thompson becomes turned on by his bloody fantasy, the woman passes by and Thompson smiles.
*                                               *                                               *
Thompson pulls on his favourite black jeans over his lucky, union jack boxer shorts, then he pulls on his red polo shirt, he grabs his keys and his leather jacket and starts on his quest for his nightly lay.

Arriving at the bar and ordering his, normal, Lager he settles down and starts to check out the prospective bed partners. After only his third drink he spots his chosen partner, the busty brunette stands alone drinking at the other end of the bar, in between, half way down the bar the publican wipes the bar down clearing the used, empty, glasses. Thompson begins to create a now familiar image in his mind, the girl is naked lying on a bed, Thompson sees himself making love to her and he takes a knife and begins to assault her breasts. He watches her, waiting for her to finish her drink and then moves down the bar towards her.

"Would you like another drink?" He expectantly holds a five-pound note towards the oncoming barman.

"Sure, I'll have a 'Gee & Tee', thanks." She says, finally. As their drinks arrive Thompson decides it's a good time to introduce himself, he hands the girl her drink, "I'm Simon by the way."

"Tina." She replies.

After sometime and more drinks closing time approaches, the girl, Tina, smiles as she had done so many times during that evening.

“Your place or mine, Simon?" She sips at her 'Gee & Tee' looking into Thompson's eyes over her glass, she had obviously sensed his unspoken interest in sex, and Thompson grins, "Well yours, of course."

*                                               *                                               *
The next morning Thompson enters the Police Station. He is welcomed by the pristine hall and a nod from Charley.

"Thomo, over here." He calls and hands Thompson a scrap of paper. Thompson takes it and reads the address scrawled onto it, it seems familiar, but he can't seem to place it.

"Jeffries wants you there ten minutes ago. So you better get going."

"Yeah. Um, sure. Uh thanks Santa.” replies Thompson unconvincingly, before turning round and wandering back to his car. As Thompson turns into the street where Jeffries waits for him it suddenly dawns on him why this place is familiar, he was here last night! No, it can't be! In what is not far off sheer, blind, panic, Thompson allows the car just to crawl along up to the numbered house, he pulls up outside the building, the very building he was in last night! Thompson sits in his parked car desperately trying to remember what he did that morning. All he finds he can remember is making himself some toast, leaving and driving to the station... the rest was a complete blank. For a start he would have had to go back to his place for the car, then he remembers waking up, late as usual, at his apartment, so he must have left the girl's apartment in the early hours of that morning. The image of her bloody corpse he had imagined when he first saw her swims around his head. He climbs out of the car and heads into the building, dreading the scene that awaited him up there. After Thompson made his way up the stairs he sees the door to the familiar apartment, but doesn't notice the uniformed constable standing guard.

Apprehensively Thompson stands in the doorway he sees a momentary blinding white flash from a camera. There are a number of uniformed and non-uniformed police officers milling about the room, as he stands dumb struck in the doorway a dark familiar figure fills his view.

"About time too, Thompson, come in and have a look, it's nothing we haven't seen before." Jeffries announces in a seemingly heartless tone.

Thompson surveys the bloody scene, Jeffries was right of course, it was like all the others, but the situation is not the same. Firstly there was supposed to be no more killings, they had caught the guy, hadn't they? Then of course most important of all to Thompson was the fact that he had never known any of the victims before, he had always been able to continue his investigations without the worry of emotions effecting his abilities due to a romantic involvement with the victim, until now. Only now does he wish that he could remember what he did that morning.

"Wake up Thompson, we have work to do." Thompson is startled by Jeffries voice. "Now Thomo-" Before Jeffries can continue, a shout goes up from the other side of the room, it is one of the non-uniformed officers.

"Sir, here!" He holds up a plastic evidence bag, inside is a blood covered knife, Thompson has to hold himself from gasping as he recognises the knife as the one he had used for his toast that morning. Jeffries makes his way over; Thompson follows unable to take his eyes from the knife.

"Get it down the lab." Jeffries orders, "And start praying we didn’t get the wrong man shot."

Thompson watches the knife as it carried from the room beginning its journey to the forensic lab; again he is startled by Jeffries' booming voice.

"Hey Thomo, you alright? Will you stop daydreaming and get down stairs!"

"Down stairs?" queries Thompson.

"Have you been listening to anything I have been saying, get down stairs and question the cleaner, she's downstairs with WPC Jacqui Bloomfield."

"Yes sir, on my way."

As he walks into the room where the cleaner sits drinking a cup of tea, he is greeted with a kind smile from Jacqui, which he replies too likewise. He asks the usual questions and receives the usual answers. The cleaner says she didn't see anything; she only found the body, but just as Thompson finishes his questions, the cleaner adds, "I know you, I recognise you, yes, you were with her last night, your name is Simon isn't it?" Thompson smiles kindly at the old lady and leaves quickly.

*                                               *                                               *
Thompson returns to his flat, it had been a long day, it was already eight o'clock in the evening, he opens the fridge and finds that it's only content is the light shining on his face. He sits down contemplating the results of the day's findings, they were probably going to find his fingerprints on the knife, the WPC, Jacqui may tell Jeffries about him knowing the girl, from what the cleaner said. Everything brought him and would probably bring everyone else to the same conclusion, he'd killed the girl, well he couldn't be sure if he had or not. After all he had had those dreams and those visions of the girl, the visions that seemed like bizarre sexual fantasies, maybe he had actually carried them out. His mind wouldn't clear; he couldn't remember what he had done that morning, he couldn't tell anyone about it, especially Jeffries, he would have to prove it.

"Damn I need a drink." He tells himself. So he gets his jacket and makes his way to the bar.

*                                               *                                               *

After a few drinks Thompson is again happy with the world, a girl at the end of the bar had been watching him, she decides she has built up enough courage, it was time to make her move. "Hi, I'm Sandy." She announces. Thompson turns to look at her; his mind registers important factors, 'Pretty face and big tits.' He decides that he likes her. "Hi, I'm Simon." It wasn't much, but he had had a few drinks, it is all he could manage. Sandy chats him up for a couple of hours, well she chatted continually for two hours; most of it was of no interest to Thompson. Then she suggests that they go back to her place, perhaps for a nightcap before they were thrown out. Thompson eagerly agrees.

*                                               *                                               *

Next morning the phone wakes Thompson. He picks up the receiver. "Hello." "Its Jeffries," The familiar voice of authority replies.

"We've got another dead girl here."

Thompson slams down the phone; the colour drains from his cheeks.

'It couldn't be, no.' he quickly dresses and drives to the scene. As Thompson arrives he finds Jeffries standing outside the building waiting for him. "That was quick, how did you know where to come?"

"I knew her, her name is Sandy, um, I think her surname's Peabody and she’s a student nurse. I can't tell you anymore, I know more about this than I can tell you now, I can try to find a way to find out who did it."

"What are you saying Thomo?"

"Sorry I have to go." Thompson gets into his car and speeds off. Jeffries turns to the door and shouts, "Ok pack up lads we got what we came for!"

*                                               *                                               *

Back at his flat Thompson sits at his desk with a piece of paper and a pen.

"Write the facts." He says to nobody. "One; I pick up a girl in the bar, go back to her place, make love all night and leave the next morning, Two; police find her dead." As he speaks he writes the list out on the sheet of paper. "Not looking too good for the home side so far, um, now I couldn't be too sure if I'd killed the first girl or not, but I'm pretty sure I didn't kill the second one which now makes me pretty sure I didn't kill the first, still not too convincing though. Well only one way to find out for sure." Thompson leaves his flat and makes his way to the bar.

Thompson was just starting his sixth pint when he sees a girl; she looks at him, smiles and offers to buy him a drink. "Great I'll have a double scotch." Not his normal drink, but tonight for some reason he is feeling adventurous, after a few more scotches Thompson starts to feel not so adventurous, in fact he is feeling rather ill.

"Sorry I'm not feeling too great. I think I'll have to go." They leave together, say their goodbyes and go their separate ways; Thompson decides that the whiskey was not a good idea and vows never to drink the damned stuff again.

* * *
Thompson arrives at work; as usual he is twenty minutes late, he makes his way to report to Jeffries as he reaches the office he shares with Jeffries the sight of the dark 6 foot 5 inch figure putting his trench coat on halts him.

"Ah there you are Thomo, come on we got another one." As they leave the building they are mobbed by the press.

"Did you shoot an innocent man, Inspector?" One shouts. "Is it true that there's a police officer involved in the murders?" A woman asks. Jeffries stands staring at them, they all fall silent.

"To answer your questions," His commanding voice booms across the car park. "No we didn't shoot the wrong man, he was the right man, but the shooting was an accident and yes there is an officer involved, that officer is me, I'm trying to investigate. Now get out of here!"

They all start to move except one brave man. "Have you got a suspect yet?" The other journalists who hadn't got too far away start to move away quicker as Jeffries bears down on the man who's bravery is quickly vanishing.

"Why feeling guilty?" Jeffries threatens. "Now fuck off out of my way!"

The ground seems to shake and many of the leaving journalists break out into a half-run. At the murder scene Jeffries looks around with a profoundly bored look on his face.

"Nothing we haven't seen before." He turns to Thompson. "What have you got for me Thomo, it better be good."

"Not much yet, but I think I know a way to get what we want. It also means that no more girls will be killed. Oh and by the way I didn't spend the night with this one, I never came here. I wasn't feeling well."

*                                               *                                               *
Thompson arrives at work; as usual he is twenty minutes late, he makes his way to report to Jeffries as he reaches the office he shares with Jeffries the sight of the dark 6 foot 5 inch figure putting his trench coat on halts him.

"Ah there you are Thomo, come on we got another one." As they leave the building they are mobbed by the press.

"Did you shoot an innocent man, Inspector?" One shouts. "Is it true that there's a police officer involved in the murders?" A woman asks. Jeffries stands staring at them, they all fall silent.

"To answer your questions," His commanding voice booms across the car park. "No we didn't shoot the wrong man, he was the right man, but the shooting was an accident and yes there is an officer involved, that officer is me, I'm trying to investigate. Now get out of here!"

They all start to move except one brave man. "Have you got a suspect yet?" The other journalists who hadn't got too far away start to move away quicker as Jeffries bears down on the man who's bravery is quickly vanishing.

"Why feeling guilty?" Jeffries threatens. "Now fuck off out of my way!"

The ground seems to shake and many of the leaving journalists break out into a half-run. At the murder scene Jeffries looks around with a profoundly bored look on his face.

"Nothing we haven't seen before." He turns to Thompson. "What have you got for me Thomo, it better be good."

"Not much yet, but I think I know a way to get what we want. It also means that no more girls will be killed. Oh and by the way I didn't spend the night with this one, I never came here. I wasn't feeling well."

*                                               *                                               *
Thompson picks up another girl, when they get to her flat they waste no time, in less than five minutes they are undressed, in bed and partaking of foreplay. As Thompson lay smoking after the first session he carefully plans out in his mind what he will do in the morning, after finishing his cigarette he turns over and finds the girl all ready to start session two.

The next morning comes and Thompson is ready, he leaves the girl's flat, climbs into his car and drives off. He turns a corner, parks and waits, Thompson had worked out that the killer had to have been watching him, he would go in right after Thompson left, although he wasn't too sure about the last one as he didn't spent the night with her so the killer couldn't have seen him leave. Thompson restarts the car and drives back round to the flat, in the hope of catching the killer in the act and hopefully before it would be too late for the girl. As Thompson enters the building he hears the girl scream, he sprints up the stairs and across the landing to her flat, the door is ajar so he pushes it fully open. His eyes first go to the bed; the all too familiar bloody mess greets him, the girl's body is in shreds, then he sees movement, a figure in black, a man wearing black balaclava, black jumper, black gloves and black trousers climbing out of the window onto the fire-escape. Thompson quickly runs over to the window, he gets there just in time to see the figure in black running off down the street. Thompson thumps his fists down on the windowsill in frustration, he turns round and runs down to his car picks up his radio and calls in,

"This is Thompson, I've just seen a suspect, he's just ran off down... Oh forget it just get Jeffries down here, I've some explaining to do."

*                                               *                                               *
Thompson sits in his car waiting for the arrival of Jeffries and the police forensic and pathology entourage. He couldn't go up to the flat, he couldn't be there alone, she wasn't supposed to die, he was supposed to get there before the bastard could do her any harm. Lost in his thoughts Thompson sees and hears nothing, until he is disturbed by a deep commanding voice.

"Come on Thomo, let's have a look." Jeffries stands on the pavement leaning down towards Thompson, he straightens and Thompson gets out of his car and leads the posse upstairs.

Thompson stands in the doorway watching the men in white overalls busying around, collecting samples of everything imaginable from the scene. A photographer collects his pictorial evidence, a seemingly purifying white light fills the room with each flash from the camera. An officer with a note pad approaches Thompson. Thompson thinks about his answer to the yet unspoken question from the scribbling officer.

"Her name was Cynthia," Thompson says, "Cynthia Bolder, twenty-four, secretary."

The officer scribbles, then thanks Thompson before moving on, Thompson beckons for Jeffries to follow him and they step out onto the landing.

"Right, Gary I expect that an explanation is long over due, I suppose I'd better start at the beginning."

"As good a place as any." So Thompson fills Jeffries in with the details of what he had been through.

"You done well Thomo, well you had the right idea at least. Now I think I've got a way to catch him and I can almost guarantee nobody gets killed this time."

"You can ALMOST guarantee!?"

*                                               *                                               *
Jeffries and Thompson sit in their office, Jeffries fills Thompson in on the details of his plan.

"You are to pick up WPC Bloomfield from the bar and take her back to her place and do whatever it is that you young people do, we'll have a marksman on the roof opposite early the next morning, just in case, then we'll find out who this guy is, when and if, he turns up. We will also have officers in discreet parking places outside, they can report any movement out in the street."

"That sounds fine, what do I do in the mean time?"

"You can sort out all that paperwork pilling up on your desk."

*                                               *                                               *

Thompson meets Jacqui as planned at the bar, they spend some time chatting and drinking, they leave to make their way to Jacqui's flat. On the way Jacqui admits to Thompson how she had fancied him for some time and so had decided to go all the way.

“We might as well make the most of it Simon." She suggests. He smiles and kisses her firmly on the lips. ‘Hey! I could get used to this.’ he found himself thinking. ‘This is the kind of girl I think I could settle down with.’

After a couple of hours of insecurity and apprehension, both unsure if they should do anything despite their earlier eagerness. They start kissing and slowly move over to the bed, undressing each other. In the morning they wake, their kissing starts again and it isn't long before they are making love again, the groans, moans and screams came to a climactic end, then suddenly the door burst open.

*                                               *                                               *

On the roof opposite the marksman Joe Simms lay watching Jacqui's bedroom, through the telescopic sight, very closely, he wasn't in the Super's good books, he had already shot one man by mistake, this time he had to get it right. He sees the door burst open, he takes aim, he then smiles panning across to aim at the WPC.

*                                               *                                               *
Jeffries stands in the doorway.

"Enjoying yourselves?" He seemed to be in a good mood.

Thompson smiles, Jacqui giggles, Thompson looks embarrassed as a beetroot glow emanates from his cheeks. He looks away from Jeffries and out through the window. His pupils suddenly widen as his sight falls on the form of Simms taking aim.

"No!" He screams as he throws himself in between Jacqui and the incoming bullet. The shot rings out and takes Thompson in the chest. His limp body drops into Jacqui's arms and he begins to choke as blood fills his lungs, he looks up into Jacqui's tear streaked face and struggles a whisper; "It's ok he's gone now, he was in my head, now he's gone." As Thompson dies Jacqui weeps, Jeffries storms from the room furiously muttering to himself. "Someone's going to pay for this." before making his way down to the street.

*                                               *                                               *
Jeffries sits at his desk, Simms stands before him.

"Have you got an explanation?" Jeffries asks in a voice filled with anger.

"Yes sir, I didn't know you were coming, when I saw the door open I thought it was the murderer and I shot. I should've taken aim sir, it was just a wild shot."

"No good Simms."

"Sir?"

"You're excuse this time is no good, this time you're going down, I'm personally going to make sure of that."

"Sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me, I'm going to make sure you go down for at least manslaughter, now get out of my sight you murdering bastard!" Jeffries' shout reverberates and echoes through the station, everyone knew.

*                                               *                                               *

At the funeral of Detective Sergeant Simon Thompson the police gathered in formal uniform, except for Jacqui Bloomfield and Garfield Jeffries, who believing the killer was still at large continued his investigations. Simon's parents stand either side of the weeping Jacqui, comforting her. The vicar finishes his sermon; Simon's parents join the rest of the gathered family and leave Jacqui alone at the graveside. Jacqui throws her flowers into the grave, she looks tired; she hasn't been able to sleep, she has been having terrible nightmares, horrid, bloody dreams, she felt disgusted with herself, she couldn't believe she actually found the dreams sexually arousing, being turned on by the bloody mosaics. She looks up from the gapping pit and watches the departing uniformed procession. At the rear is a beautiful young WPC. Jacqui can see her in her mind's eye lying naked in bed, she could see the girl bleeding from the knife wounds in her breasts, Jacqui's breathing increases, her hand strays to the front of her skirt, but is startled by a voice from behind her. She recognises the voice immediately. Simms!

"Nice isn't she, you'd like to see her naked, wouldn't you, you'd like to see her bleed, wouldn't you, you'd like to see her dead, wouldn't you." He leans closer and whispers in her ear. "Pleasant dreams Jacqui, pleasant dreams."

Copyright 2007 Ian Samuels