and admiration he is held in amongst his peers. I could talk about his meteoric rise from very humble beginnings to the very top of his difficult trade, but that’s not really what I remember about him most.
What I remember about him most was his gentleness, kindness, incredible generosity and painful honesty. He was the best moral compass a young man could have had, especially one with ambitions to join the police. I would be lying if I said tempting opportunities didn’t present themselves, but the thought of letting not just myself but my parents down kept me well and truly on the straight and narrow.
My dad taught me one thing above all others – that no matter how much we achieve in our chosen professions, no matter how much wealth and power we obtain – what is really important is to be a good man. Just be a good man. He was a very good man.
Sadly Mike passed away three years ago aged a very young seventy-two. Another victim to the great taker of men – cancer. The world has felt a poorer place ever since. He is much missed and much loved.
For Mike.
Contents
1
Saturday. I agreed to come to the park with the wife and children. They’re over there on the grassy hill, just along from the pond. They’ve fed themselves, fed the ducks and now they’re feeding their own belief that we’re one normal happy family. And to be fair, as far as they’re concerned, we are. I won’t let the sight of them spoil my day. The sun is shining and I’m getting a bit of a tan. The memory of the latest visit is still fresh and satisfying. It keeps the smile on my face.
Look at all these people. Happy and relaxed. They’ve no idea I’m watching them. Watching as small children wander away from their mothers too distracted by idle chat to notice. Then they realize their little darling has wandered too far and up goes that shrill shriek of an over-protective parent, followed by a leg slap for the child and more shrieking.
I am satisfied for the time being. The fun I had last week will keep me contented for a while, so everyone is safe today.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with the little queer. I made it look like a domestic murder. I’ve heard fights between people like him can get nasty, so I had a bit of fun with the idea.
He was easy enough to dispatch. These people live dangerous lives. They make perfect victims. So I hunted amongst them, looking for someone, and I found him.
I had already decided to spend the evening stalking the patrons of a Vauxhall nightclub, Utopia. What a ridiculous name. More like Hell, if you ask me. I told my wife I was out of town on business, packed some spare clothes, toiletries, the usual things for a night away and booked a hotel room in Victoria. I could hardly turn up at home in the early hours. That would arouse suspicions. I couldn’t have that. Everything at home needed to appear … normal.
I also packed a paper decorating suit that I bought at Homebase, several pairs of surgical gloves − readily available from all sorts of shops − a shower cap and some plastic bags to cover my feet. A little noisy, but effective. And last but not least a syringe. All fitted neatly into a small rucksack.
Avoiding the CCTV cameras that swamped the area, I watched the entrance to the club from the shadows of the railway bridge as the sound of the trains reverberated through the archways.
I had already spied my target entering the club earlier that evening. The excitement made my testicles tighten. Yes, he was truly worthy of my special attentions. This wasn’t the first time I had seen him. I had watched him a couple of weeks earlier, watched him whore himself inside the club with whoever could match his price. I had been searching for the perfect victim, knowing the police would only check CCTV from the night he died or, if they were especially diligent, maybe the week before.
I had stood in the midst of the heaving throng of stinking, foul humanity, bodies brushing past my own, tainting my
