These are the final two chapters - posted together because the final one is really only an afterward. thanks for the wonderfully constructive comments x
There was a small yard at the back of the shop, and the killer ran through it into the alleyway beyond, veering to the right. Dempsey followed him, all the while trying for clear shot.
He fired but missed. At the far end of the alley was a redbrick, derelict-looking building surrounded by a chain link fence. Danger. No Trespassing a sign read. With incredible agility, the man scaled the fence and dropped to the other side. He headed straight for the building.
Dempsey followed. He's planned his escape – he knows this place, he thought instinctively as he jumped down into a mass of overgrown weeds. The killer vanished through a grey metal door that was swinging off its hinges.
He knew the dangers. An enclosed space. A dangerous, unfamiliar building. But he had no choice – he couldn't allow the Suitor to escape again. He pulled open the door.
Inside it was gloomy and windowless. He moved cautiously, taking in the graffiti, the piles of dusty rubbish. There were holes in the floor where damp had corroded the floorboards. Carefully, he crossed the room and passed through another door into a larger space that was full of dusty benches. A foul stench hung in the air: decaying food, mustiness. It was a place for rats and tramps to shelter, but there was no sign of Mr Jenkins. Dempsey stopped, strained his ears.
Nothing. Hugging the wall, he advanced quietly until he reached another doorway. The building seemed to be made up of large interconnecting rooms. He listened again. Only the sound of his own breath. Finger on the trigger, he rounded the corner.
Suddenly an arm came around his neck and a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Before he could react, a foot tripped him; he fell to the ground. The gun was kicked out of his hand and he watched it skitter across the floor and disappear through a gap in the floorboards. He swore.
The Suitor had waited for him. He'd been so intent on pursuit of his prey, he hadn't really believed the man might fight back. Now he was unarmed, and a knife was at his throat.
The killer controlled him with his voice.
"I'll give the orders now, Officer."
There was a mouldy green armchair in the corner of the room and he was pushed awkwardly towards it. A musty rug on the floor and beer cans strewn around created a strange parody of a living room setting.
"This is the perfect place to entertain you," said the Suitor into his neck, "I have everything I need to hand."
He pushed Dempsey into the chair, holding the knife close. With his free hand, he reached down into the burst stuffing and retrieved a thick reel of electric cable.
When Dempsey saw it, he pushed himself forwards to get up but with lightening speed, the man lassoed the cable around both the chair and him. He struggled and in response, the man synched it so tightly that he groaned in pain. He was afraid one of his ribs would crack as he fought to breath.
"Calm, calm," muttered the man, hearing his desperate gasps. "It's so much easier when you don't struggle, see?"
He used more cable to bind his feet and hands.
"You're probably wondering why I'm bothering to do all this, why I don't just stab you to death," the man said flatly.
"Don't worry, that's coming. But I want to talk to you first, to make your acquaintance. I only wish we had more time." He looked genuinely regretful.
Dempsey was trussed and helpless. His eyes were on the knife, much bigger and longer than the one in the shop. This place was a giant trap it seemed; he had walked into the killer's personal death playground. Now he was pacing up and down. There were sweat stains on the thin material of his cardigan and his face was flushed, mottled pink. Dempsey's stomach twisted in revulsion.
"What would you have to talk to me about, loser? You're pathetic, you know that?"
The Suitor laughed. "Pathetic am I, eh? What's an American doing in the British police anyway? Were you expelled from your own?"
"Only same as anyone else in the force. Tryin' to clean the streets of scum like you."
Then he was angry. "Oh yes, that's right, scum. I'll tell you what scum is. Those tarts, that's what! I was helping them, trying to save them from themselves. Why doesn't anybody understand that?"
He looked away for a moment, his face consumed with rage and something else – a kind of hunger. He's completely crazy, thought Dempsey. Nuts, dingbats, loony.
He tried to think of something to say, but in the end he just kept silent. He fought to stop himself from descending into panic. Christ, how're you gonna get yourself out of this one? Jack. Jack was his only hope. Had he managed to crawl to the phone? Or was he lying in a pool of blood, passed out in the hallway? God, let it be the former.
The Suitor had been moving restlessly, but now he turned on him.
"Your colleague," he said. "She came looking for me. Our parting last time was impromptu, but the reunion will be so sweet. She was such a natural whore. They all are, when you scratch the surface. Oh, they try and dress themselves up to look respectable, but they can't hide their real natures. At least the street girls don't pretend to be anything else."
"They're people, same as me an' you." He knew the words were meaningless.
The Suitor appeared not to hear. His mind was elsewhere.
"The Sergeant though," he said thoughtfully, "You have no idea how much it excited me to see how easily she exposed her true self. You let bitches like that into the police," he laughed scornfully, "it makes you a laughing stock, do you realise?"
"I believe you're referring to me?" a cut glass voice rang out across the room. The two men looked. To Dempsey, it was as if an angel had descended into Hell. Makepeace.
She stood among the dusty newspapers and detritus, her gun pointed at the Suitor. Although her face was bruised and the bandage on the side of her head clearly visible, her hands were steady.
"Hello again," she gazed unflinchingly at him.
"Twice in 24 hours." Her voice was strong, "But this is where it ends, Jenkins. You terrorised me but I'm the last woman you'll ever hurt."
"You came back to me, Sergeant."
She ignored him. "Drop your weapon and get face down on the ground." She glanced at Dempsey. Fleetingly, their eyes locked.
The Suitor didn't move. "Get down, like she said!" shouted Dempsey from his prone position. But the man only smiled.
Then he began to walk towards Harry, speaking in his monotone voice.
"You're so very beautiful, did anyone ever tell you that?"
"I said on the ground!" she yelled at him, every muscle in her body screaming with tension, but he kept walking. He was five metres away, knife in hand, when she pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him between the eyes and threw him back across the room. Then he was still. Blood from the exit wound spread around his head in a large, black halo.
Harry lowered her gun slowly. She looked at Dempsey. "Jack told me where to find you," she said. "Apparently, he came here quite often, said he was giving food to dossers. Heaven knows what he was really doing."
"Plannin' his next sick crime, I'll bet. How's Jack?"
"I heard him shouting when I got to the door. He'd crawled into the shop. He's lost a fair bit of blood, but he managed to let me in. I called for back up and an ambulance. Should be here about now."
"How'd you…?"
She held up her hand. "Let's get out of here. Then I'll tell you everything."
She walked over to the Suitor's body, looked down at it for a while.
"So much hatred," she said softly. "How can somebody walk around with that much hatred? You know, all I want to do right now is to find Tina and tell her we got him. Isn't that funny?"
"Yeah, real funny Harry," he smiled at her weakly, blinked back a tear. "Now are you gonna untie me or what?"