Part 2 (2/2)

'- someone or something reached in and ripped them out of the body with their bare hands?'

Pickard nodded. 'Exactly.'

'And you don't think that's at all unusual, Inspector?'

Pickard s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. 'Well, of course it's unusual.

To tell the truth I've never seen anything like it. But crazy people are capable of performing incredible feats of strength you know, Mr Yates.'

'Captain,' said Mike quietly.

'Pardon?'

'I hold the rank of Captain.' Then he smiled. 'Not that it matters. I'm just a bit of a stickler for detail, that's all.'

Pickard looked a little baffled.

'So is this all you have to show?' Mike continued briskly.

'Butcher's leftovers? No complete bodies?'

'There's one,' said Pickard. 'We haven't had a formal ID yet, but we think it's the skipper's son, Terry Robson.'

'But the entire crew have been accounted for?' said Mike. 'I mean, among all these bits and pieces?'

Pickard shook his head. 'It's still too early for that. We won't know for sure what we've got here until later this afternoon. Unofficially we reckon we've got the bits of at least five bodies here.'

'And the sixth crewmember?'

'Dead too, I'd guess.'

'What makes you so sure?'

Pickard led the way across to a blanket beside the wheelhouse. The bulge beneath this blanket was more substantial than the others. Glancing back at the police line at the end of the jetty - Mike guessed to ensure that the public couldn't see what he was about to reveal - Pickard pulled the blanket back.

The man was lying on his back, eyes partially open and glazed with death, head lolled on to his left shoulder. The exposed side of his neck and throat was ripped and gouged as if he had been attacked by a wild animal. His clothes and the wooden deck of the boat beneath him were soaked with blood. By his side, inches from his hand, was a stubby handgun with a wide muzzle.

'Flare gun?' said Mike.

Pickard nodded. 'I think Terry here fired it point-blank at his attacker, who then either fell or was blown overboard.'

'And Terry died later from loss of blood,' murmured Mike.

Pickard let the blanket fall back over the corpse. Mike straightened up.

'Well, thanks again for your help, Inspector. You will keep me informed if there are any developments, won't you?'

Pickard smiled thinly. 'If that's what you want. Though I don't think we'll be arresting any little green men from Mars for this.'

Mike matched Pickard's smile with a disarming one of his own. 'You never know, Inspector,' he said. 'You never know.'

Guy Elkins woke up thinking about who in the world he would most like to kill. Just lately his mind was refusing to turn itself to any other subject. If his mates started talking about football or motorbikes or girls they'd like to sleep with, his thoughts would begin to slip and a strange buzzing would start up in his brain, drowning out their words. The last time he had been in the pub, four days ago, all he had been able to think about was smas.h.i.+ng his beer gla.s.s on the counter and ramming the jagged edge into Carl Collier's throat.

Carl was his best mate, they had known each other since they were babies, but the thought of Carl's blood spurting out filled him with a shudder of excitement he could barely control. He had felt sweat spring up on his brow, had clenched his teeth and gripped his beer gla.s.s so hard it was a wonder it hadn't exploded in his fist. Carl had noticed the state he was in, had frowned and asked Guy if he was feeling all right. Guy had known what Carl was saying despite his words being drowned out by a buzzing so loud it was like having an electricity pylon in his head.

The only reason he hadn't slashed his best friend's throat on that occasion was that he had forced himself, with a mighty effort of will, to let go of the gla.s.s, shove Carl out of the way and stagger out of the pub. He had set off for home at a stumbling run and hadn't stopped until he got there. He had no idea whether Carl had come after him to find out what was wrong. Certainly Guy hadn't seen him since he'd left him sitting bemusedly in a pool of beer on the pub floor.

Guy and Carl, both eighteen now, had been getting into trouble together almost since they could walk. They'd been done for affray, burglary, vandalism, shoplifting, stealing cars. They knew each other's strengths and limitations, knew they could rely on one another in a crisis. At least, they did until about ten days ago. It was then that Guy's mind had started to... change.

Guy, like Carl, had always enjoyed a good sc.r.a.p. He believed there was nothing better than hearing the crunch of somebody's nose breaking beneath his fist, of knocking somebody to the ground, spilling somebody's blood. Just recently, though, the desire to inflict violence on other people had grown into an obsession, an addiction. It was as if something had taken him over, latched on to that desire within him, and had begun to feed it. In turn, the desire had responded, growing and flouris.h.i.+ng like some rampant weed in his brain, and in the process strangling all other thoughts and needs. Today Guy didn't just want to hurt people, he wanted to kill them, wanted to rip them apart, bathe in their blood. The sheer ferocity of his thoughts was terrifying and exhilarating. Yet although his bloodl.u.s.t had engulfed him to the point where he could barely function on any social level, he had never felt more alive.

All week he had been roaming the streets for stray animals or raiding people's gardens for their pets, bringing them back to the house, torturing and killing them in his room. It a.s.suaged his desires a little, but it was not enough. Sooner or later he knew he would have to move on to people. The only thing that had held him back was the extra attention it would bring, the fear of getting caught.

It was not prison that scared him, though; far from it. He was simply terrified of being deprived of what he needed to feed his addiction. The buzzing urge to kill was so overwhelming that, were he to be denied the opportunity, he honestly believed his body would be ripped apart by the build-up of pressure inside him.

So, who to kill? Who would he most like like to kill? His drunken widower of a father who had never given a sod for him? Mrs Raymond, the vicious old cow of a headmistress who'd expelled him? Sergeant Weathers, who never got off his case, even when he wasn't up to anything? Or how about that stupid bird, Janice Crooks, who had shrieked with laughter when he'd asked her out in the pub a few months ago? to kill? His drunken widower of a father who had never given a sod for him? Mrs Raymond, the vicious old cow of a headmistress who'd expelled him? Sergeant Weathers, who never got off his case, even when he wasn't up to anything? Or how about that stupid bird, Janice Crooks, who had shrieked with laughter when he'd asked her out in the pub a few months ago?

Anyone would do, right now. If an opportunity were to present itself where he knew knew he could kill Carl, his life-long mate, and not get caught for it, he'd do it. He'd kill old women, little kids, babies... he could kill Carl, his life-long mate, and not get caught for it, he'd do it. He'd kill old women, little kids, babies...

Through the buzzing cacophony of his thoughts he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Was this it? Was this what he'd been waiting for? Had a victim come to his lair? He scrambled out of bed and ran downstairs, only half-aware that he'd been wearing the same crumpled T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans for several days now, that in all that time he hadn't washed or brushed his teeth or combed the lank, shoulder-length hair that he kidded himself made him look like Charlie George.

He saw the man blink in shock and disgust as soon as he opened the door, saw it in the split-second before he covered it up. Guy was disappointed. The man looked lean and fit, as though he'd be hard to kill if Guy decided to try it, as though he wouldn't go down without a fight.

The frustration gnawed inside him, seemed to awaken the terrible itching that constantly simmered just beneath the surface of his skin. He wanted to tear at his own chest and arms with his fingernails. He gave an involuntary moan and the man looked at him curiously.

'Are you all right?'

'I...' Guy's voice was a croak; his face felt like a loose rubber mask he was trying unsuccessfully to control. With a gargantuan effort he pulled himself together, though his voice sounded slurred and rasping. 'What do you want?'

'My name is Mike Yates,' the man said. 'I'm looking for a Mr Derek Elkins. We have an appointment.'

As the information seeped slowly into his brain, Guy could only stare at him.

'Er... I was told he lived at this address,' the man added helpfully. 'Perhaps I was incorrectly informed?'

<script>