Dead set on Murder

DEAD SET ON MURDER An utterly gripping serial killer mystery IAIN HENN Published by THE BOOK FOLKS London, 2023 © Iain Henn Polite note to the reader This book is written in Australian English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate. This book was previously published as “Disappear” in 2012. You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers. We hope you enjoy the book. To my wife, Janne for your light and love and encouragement Each year, in Australia alone, more than 35,000 people are reported missing. In the United States, it is over 600,000, in the UK 200,000. More than 85% of these return, or are found, within the first two weeks. The remainder fall into the category of the long-term missing person. Some have run away to a different life; some have suffered memory loss or illness; some have been kidnapped or murdered. Most are traced eventually one way or another. There is always a small percentage, however, who are never seen or heard of again. Missing Persons Statistics Contents PROLOGUE 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 SEVENTY-FOUR SEVENTY-FIVE EPILOGUE More fiction by Iain Henn Other titles of interest FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX PROLOGUE It was the perfect time and the perfect place for the killing. The first soft sweep of dawn light, the air crisp. The reserve was a large, sprawling tangle of green, sections of park, sections of natural bush. The running track circled the grounds, obscured from view in several places by overhanging willows and overreaching ferns. The jogger’s bloodlust was running at fever pitch, his senses singing with exhilaration. Most people would wake this morning feeling good to be alive. The jogger had woken feeling reborn, his all-consuming, dark need re-energised. His moment had finally arrived. The time. The place. And the perfect victim. For the first time in eighteen years, he was free to kill again. The watchers were gone, he was certain of that. He’d driven the perimeter of the reserve, stopping at random to scan the area with binoculars. No cars in the immediate vicinity. The reserve itself was empty, except for the young woman, keeping to her usual routine. He joined the track on one of the hidden stretches and began to jog. His timing was precise, so that the woman was a dozen metres in front of him. She covered the ground in long, casual strides. He couldn’t have wished for a finer specimen. Long legs, athletic physique, electric blue shorts in a tight fit. The urge coursed through his veins like a drug as he closed the distance between them. He was going to make up for the long years of frustration and denial; of trying to satisfy his desires with fantasies and memories; of practically being driven mad on occasion by the inexplicable restraints. That was over now. The woman was almost within reach. He imagined the thin strip of wire looped around her ONE Eighteen years ago Thunder rolled across the sky, nature’s soundtrack to the dark clouds that blanketed the city. The night was lit only by the occasional flash of streak lightning. There was steady rain, not a deluge, just the promise of one, and the wind howled like a pack of hounds. Hell of a night, thought Brian Parkes. He’d been stuck on the train for two hours, any hint of rain and the blasted things slowed down. Give them a full-blown electrical winter storm and they threw in the towel completely, stopping and starting with a familiar, grinding mechanical wheeze. Then came to a complete standstill. On a number of occasions during the two hours, the train had stalled for up to fifteen minutes at a time, before lurching on a little further. Stop-starting all the way. At the end of the long journey, Brian learned from a station assistant that the delays were caused by overhead lines coming down under the force of the strong winds. Many decades earlier Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon. But in Sydney, the train system defied the fact that, elsewhere, Man was reaching for the stars. It was a twelve-minute walk from the station to his home. His umbrella had been pushed inside out by the wind and the metal sprockets had snapped. The thin strands of metal stood upwards, away from the inverted cloth, like a creature on its back with its legs in the air. He dumped it in a roadside bin as he ran, pulling the collar of his coat tighter. He sprinted the first two blocks and then slowed to a walk for the third. After all, what was the point of racing? He was already soaked to