Alisha was right to fear him. He was responsible for the deaths of three women. Not a large number when compared to some more notorious murderers, but enough to be getting on with. It was nothing to the number of men he’d killed, so really it was the wrong sex who seemed as though they could sense his essence. He’d often wondered if he exuded some kind of putrid aura that only women could see. Many hours he’d spent in front of mirrors, studying his reflection, looking for what they saw. He’d never seen it yet. But he didn’t doubt it was there.

“Look at me, Alisha.”

Alisha fought to blink the tears off her lashes.

“Do you see it yet?”

“No, Luke.” Alisha cringed under him, knowing what was coming. “I don’t see it.”

Rickard knew there was something in him that set him apart from other men. A need, a compulsion, a thirst for blood: whatever this driving force was he could feel it coiling inside his gut like a serpent, and it had been with him since he was a small child. He could feel it worming its way through his body, seeking an outlet at every turn.

“I don’t believe you. You must see it.” He slapped her across the face. “See me, Alisha!”

Alisha cried out. So did Rickard.

Then he rolled away from her.

“Get cleaned up. And put on some nice clothes. We’re going out and we’re going to celebrate a job well done.”

“Yes, Luke.” She got up painfully, then shuffled toward the en suite bathroom, where she closed the door behind her. Rickard lay down on his back and listened to the sobs she tried to conceal with the sound of running water.

Rickard smiled at his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. He was happy with himself.

People argued about the psychology of men who felt the need to hurt others. How had their urge to destroy come about? Nature or nurture? What if it was neither? Rickard had often asked himself. What if it was both? His nature was to kill, but he’d nurtured his skills to a point where he could do so with impunity.

But he was no raging serial killer.

Any fool could kill.

His mobile phone vibrated on the cabinet next to the bed.

He smiled. Not many fools could make a living from killing, and as a measure of his success, Rickard was a very wealthy man.

“Rickard,” he said into the phone.

“That was good work today,” said the voice at the other end.

“Thanks. I enjoyed it.”

“The figure we agreed is in your account.”

“Yes.” Rickard had already checked.

“Okay, so Hunter can’t go to the police now. We’ve got him on the run and I want to keep the impetus going. Are you ready for the next part of the plan?”

“When?”