The Domino Killer

Neil White was born and brought up around West Yorkshire. He left school at sixteen but studied for a law degree in his twenties, then started writing in 1994. He is now a lawyer by day, crime fiction writer by night. He lives with his wife and three children in Preston.

Fallen Idols

Lost Souls

Last Rites

Dead Silent

Cold Kill

Beyond Evil

Next to Die

The Death Collector

Table of Contents

• About the Author
  
• Also by Neil White
  
• COPYRIGHT
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• One
  
• Two
  
• Three
  
• Four
  
• Five
  
• Six
  
• Seven
  
• Eight
  
• Nine
  
• Ten
  
• Eleven
  
• Twelve
  
• Thirteen
  
• Fourteen
  
• Fifteen
  
• Sixteen
  
• Seventeen
  
• Eighteen
  
• Nineteen
  
• Twenty
  
• Twenty-one
  
• Twenty-two
  
• Twenty-three
  
• Twenty-four
  
• Twenty-five
  
• Twenty-six
  
• Twenty-seven
  
• Twenty-eight
  
• Twenty-nine
  
• Thirty
  
• Thirty-one
  
• Thirty-two
  
• Thirty-three
  
• Thirty-four
  
• Thirty-five
  
• Thirty-six
  
• Thirty-seven
  
• Thirty-eight
  
• Thirty-nine
  
• Forty
  
• Forty-one
  
• Forty-two
  
• Forty-three
  
• Forty-four
  
• Forty-five
  
• Forty-six
  
• Forty-seven
  
• Forty-eight
  
• Forty-nine
  
• Fifty
  
• Fifty-one
  
• Fifty-two
  
• Fifty-three
  
• Fifty-four
  
• Fifty-five
  
• Fifty-six
  
• Fifty-seven
  
• Fifty-eight
  
• Fifty-nine
  
• Sixty
  
• Sixty-one
  
• Sixty-two
  
• Sixty-three
  
• Sixty-four
  
• Sixty-five
  
• Sixty-six
  
• Sixty-seven
  
• Sixty-eight
  
• Sixty-nine
  
• Seventy
  
• Seventy-one
  
• Seventy-two
  
• Seventy-three
  

I write alone. I don’t share my plots or send out works in progress, looking for hints or advice. Instead, I keep everything in my head as I pace and fret, shape and reshape, until I present a completed story to my editors and agent, like a nervous schoolboy.

My editor, Jade Chandler and my desk editor, Thalia Proctor, have always been gentle with me, as has my agent, the wonderful Sonia Land at Sheil Land Associates. They give me their ideas and suggestions, pointers as to where I could do things better, always thorough and constructive, so I lock myself away again. More fretting, more pacing.

For the reader, you see the finished book, the end of my endeavours, but I know the changes, the improvements, the advice and small tweaks that make it appear as it does on the shelf or your ebook reader. For the help of my editors and agent, I am eternally grateful.

As for the people who have to listen to my fretting, my worries, my occasional tantrum, I can only apologise. I’m always glad of the process, the highs and lows, as it’s all part of just that, a process. Those who can only watch don’t get the same from it, but their patience does not go unnoticed, and for that I am thankful.

He paced. It was hard to stay still. He’d been in this moment before, but those times had been different. He’d controlled them, planned them out. He wasn’t in control this time.

The wind rustled the leaves above him, like whispers, providing a cover for the thump of his heartbeat and the nervous rasp of his breath. The sun had gone; the park was in darkness, just the glow of street lights in the distance. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t think about what he had to do. Just do it. There was no choice.

He needed to summon what had driven him before, to shut out everything else.

It began like heat, his blood flowing more quickly, his fingers stretched outwards with tension. His thoughts became flashes; bright, stark images that made him want to shield his eyes. And the sounds. They started like scratches, something he could barely hear, but they got louder as the images grew brighter, a constant murmuring so that he had to clamp his hands over his ears to stop the pain. It became a compulsion, and the more he shut them out, the harder they seemed to come at him, wave after wave of need that drove out all other thoughts until he had to do something to satisfy it. An unstoppable force, willpower alone not enough.

This time it was different. So different. Cold-blooded and brutal. But deep down it was the same need. He shouldn’t feel bad about that, because he knew he couldn’t help himself. There was no hatred for the man he was waiting for, but killing him would get back something he needed.

Memories flooded through him as he stood in the darkness. Skin soft under his hands, struggling, writhing bodies; his memories like white light, everything bleached out, only the desperate cries making it through. Later, there were the tears, the screams. Ripples, that’s what they were.

His breaths came faster.

This time there’d be no blankness, no surge of adrenalin as he finished, no glow of anticipation at what lay ahead. It would be just a swing of the hammer and everything would be remembered.

The park was empty: he was alone amongst the grass and trees on the very edge of the city, with the dark brood of the moors ahead. Tarmac paths cut through it, flowerbeds running alongside filled with bright colours. The paths ran towards a wooden shelter that nestled underneath birch and sycamore trees, the wood painted black, a brass plaque proclaiming it as
in memoriam
for those who fell in the last war. Black scrawls showed where bored teenagers made a claim for the living, their nicknames written in marker pen.

He settled behind the tree, leaning against the bark and looking down at the floor. The police would want to know where he’d waited. The soles of his shoes were imprinted into the soil between the huge roots so he brushed at it, to make them indistinct. He needed a cigarette, but the glowing tip would give him away.

There was some movement. The steady
click-click
of shoes.

He peered out from behind the tree. There he was.

His fingers dug into the bark as he put his head back. He let out a quiet sigh. The man looked uncomfortable as he walked slowly along the path, looking around, a bunch of calla lilies wrapped in green paper held in one hand. That was the sign: the flowers. The clicks of the man’s footsteps became louder. He was dressed smartly, as though he was on his way home from whatever job he did, his shoes shiny black, his suit dark grey, brightened by a yellow tie.

The man didn’t sit in the shelter straight away. He paced around, fiddled with his tie, preened, looked about, as if checking that he was alone. That was why the park had been chosen, so he was told: no one used it at night.

Eventually, the man stepped into the shelter and sat down, the flowers across his knees. The wooden bench creaked beneath him and there was the hiss of a breath freshener. The man’s shoes tapped out a fast rhythm, as if he was nervous. He should be.

He felt in his pocket, just to remind himself that it was the right way. A hammer. Quick and easy. He had a knife in his other pocket in case he needed it. The hammer should be enough, though. It was heavy, the rubberised grip reassuring, but the weight of the metal head made him shudder.

He crept out from behind the tree, his clothes brushing against the bark. He gripped the shaft of the hammer. A bird flew from a branch above him but it didn’t distract him. His shoes squeaked on the grass, making more noise than he wanted. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and slipped on the mask, a ghoulish Halloween mask he’d bought for this, so that if it went wrong he might avoid identification, but he knew it was going to be all right. He had the size advantage, plus the element of surprise.

He paused at the edge of the shelter. He could still walk away. The man inside would get to go home. Then he thought of why he was doing it. His mind became more focused, the view ahead like looking along a tunnel, bright light ahead.

This was it.

He rushed into the shelter, pulling the hammer out of his pocket. The man’s eyes widened in surprise, then in shock, but it didn’t stop him.

The first swing caught the man on his arm and he yelled in pain. The flowers fell to the floor, the petals crushed under his rubber soles as he stepped forward for another blow, the man leaning back now, trying to protect himself. It was no good.

The next swing made him crumple, the hammer finding his skull.

From then it was frenzied, his mind taking nothing in. Everything was white. His arm rose and fell, liquid struck him, covering the mask, hitting his eyes and making him blink, the shaft of the hammer slick with blood. The sound of wet thuds broke the silence of the park but still he carried on. His breaths came as grunts, and he didn’t stop until his hammer struck tarmac, with nothing left of his skull to stop its path.

He stood ramrod straight and looked up at the sky. The white light receded and his chest rose quickly as he sucked in air. His arm ached.

Once his breathing returned to normal, he looked down. The man at his feet was unrecognisable. The lilies were stained deep red, as were his shoes and trousers. The man’s head was just pulp, the tarmac now a red pool. How could a body contain so much blood?

He wanted to know who this man was. Why was his death so important? He gritted his teeth and reached into the man’s pocket, the metallic smell of blood making him gag. He took his wallet. He was about to step away when he noticed the watch. It looked expensive. He unclicked it and pocketed it.

He stepped out of the blood and moved away, walking backwards all the time, then he turned and ran for his car.