The Dentist

“Fling your coat over there, love,” said Cathy North, “Back of the armchair, that’s right. Now come and give your mum a hug.”

DC Sean North edged past the glass-topped coffee table, avoiding stubbing his toe on the ornate eagle-clawed feet, and wrapped his arms around his mother. He broke away and sat on the sofa, smiling as he did so. He always felt comfortable here, having spent his teen years in its unchanging surroundings. 

“I was in the area and couldn’t leave without calling in,” said Sean.

“Are you involved with the doings down the road? At number twenty-six?”

“For now, yes, but probably not for much longer.”

“What’s it all about?”

Sean hesitated. “You know I shouldn’t talk to you about it, mum.”

“I thought we didn’t have secrets from each other?”

“Well…,” he began, “if it goes no further – and I mean that. Not even dad…”

“You know your father. If it’s not about snooker, the old goat isn’t interested. But you have my word. Whatever you tell me will be strictly between us.”

If Sean had been honest with himself he would have admitted that’s one of the reasons he had called in. Talking things through with his mother always seemed to clarify his thoughts. And events were moving quickly.

“Okay mum, so long as that’s clear.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a murder.”

“Oh my God. Who? Not Diane?”

“You know her?”

“Not well. I sometimes see her in the corner shop. What happened?”

“They’re still working on the exact cause of death. But they’ve found enough to – and again, I have to stress that this is confidential – found enough to suggest that she’s the latest victim in a series of killings.”

“A serial killer?”

“Yeah. And that’s why they’re bringing in the big guns. One gun is the Serious Crimes Analysis Section from the National Crime Agency. They deal with behavioural analysis and have been involved with the previous killings.”

“What makes them think it’s a serial killer?”

“It’s to do with the teeth. Each victim has had their front two teeth removed – post mortem – and had them replaced with those belonging to the previous victim. Stuck in with super glue.”

“Oh Sean…”

“I know. They’re calling the killer ‘the Dentist’, but are keeping it hush-hush. The Press would undoubtedly pay for this sort of information and you know the greed of some people.”

“Shouldn’t people know?”

“Not my decision. As I say, I’m not likely to be working on this much longer. Scenes Of Crime Officers are moving out, but they’re keeping the house sealed for now. I have to go back to the station to give a final briefing, so I should make tracks.”

Sean stood and moved over to the window, looking towards his car.

“Oh, typical. Someone’s boxed me in.”

“White van?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be picking up Denis next door. You won’t have to wait long.”

“Right.” He looked back at his mother. “You say you didn’t know Diane Morris that well?”

“No, love. She didn’t leave her house much. Borderline agoraphobic. I once saw her come home in a taxi after she’d had to go to the town centre. She was in a terrible state.”

Sean frowned. “So it’s not likely she’d travel to London?”

“Oh God, no.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why she had a new Oyster card?”

The Dentist was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time: fling, eagle, goat, _un, dentist, greed, tracks, boxed, wait, oyster.

The Collector

Moogie quietly closed the oak panelled doors behind him. He stood in the gloom, watching the eager flames dance in the fireplace at the far side of the drawing room. This provided the only light, throwing a high-backed leather chair into silhouette.

Not only was the room larger than his entire flat, the paintings on the walls were probably more expensive than his entire building. He reflected how easy it had been to gain entry into Edwin Morely’s home.

A cultured voice startled him. “Ah, it’s the other one. Which one are you, Butch or Sundance?” A somewhat feminine laugh followed. “Come forward where I can see you.”

Tentatively, Moogie walked towards the fireplace and, circling the chair he saw, seated there, the owner of the voice. It was an elderly man, his face resembling a deflated balloon, his purple lips drawn back in parody of a smile. He lifted a liver spotted hand and pointed to a small display case beside him on an occasional table.

“I’m a collector,” he said, “as you probably know.” He dropped his hand so that it rested once more on the chair arm. “Your friend knew this, and he paid me a visit too.

“You no doubt thought it was easy to get in here. He did. Well, my security team are well hidden. They will have followed you in.” He gazed at Moogie with unexpectedly clear eyes. “When I was younger, if I wanted to trap an insect I used a jam jar. It could get in, but it would torture itself trying to get out.”

Moogie stared at the old man. “I’m only here to find my friend.”

The smile reappeared. “Ah. He’s no longer here. Well, most of him.”

Moogie slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “What do you mean?”

With obvious effort, Edwin Morely sat forward in his chair. “I told you, I’m a collector. Come see.”

Moogie leaned forward to look into the display case. Pinned there, like a butterfly collection, were a set of what appeared to be dried figs. Two were not dried.

Morely’s smile grew wider. “What do you people say, ‘pin back your lug holes’?”

Moogie didn’t really think it through. He just knew it was time to exact revenge. From his pocket, his hand shot out, holding a combat knife. He plunged it into Morely’s throat.

The old man sank back in the chair, pink froth on his lips. The smile was no longer there.

The Collector was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time, gloom, home b_tch, liver, insect, torture, exact, knife, pink, smile.

Waiting for the Man

The gull was back, tearing at the greasy takeaway carton. The incident that had left two bodies crumpled in the alleyway had only been a minor inconvenience to the bird. Truth to tell, it had only been a minor inconvenience to Cain Hartman.

When Mason had told him that the target’s security detail had all undergone something called the Tactical Combat Training System, Hartman had revised his plan. Granted, with his unarmed combat skills he could overcome TCTS techniques, but he was not one to be driven by ego. Besides, bullets to the head were quicker.

Before acting, Hartman had waited until the shorter of the two guards had given the all clear and shut off his phone. Timing was everything. The target was due to arrive any minute.

William Cochrane. A ruthless man with a love of power and a desire to control that was almost a fever. His death would be a gesture of hope to those who had been tortured and sent to jail without trial. His pain would not be prolonged, but it would be a sort of karma, nonetheless.

Hartman could appreciate the difference his actions would make. But he was not an idealist – it was just another job. His escape route was set; the sniper rifle was snuggled into his shoulder.

He heard a car engine and saw the piano-black BMW turn the corner at the end of the street.

Soon. The rifle stock would jar his shoulder and it would all be over.

Waiting for the Man was the result of another Creative Writing exercise, whereby you had to write something including ten "random" Scrabble words, In this case the words were: gull, granted, t_ts, ego, love, fever, gesture, jail, jar and karma.