He picked up the folder. Opening it revealed a first page that contained just two words. They were enough to raise his pulse to the point that he could feel it banging against his temple: CALLIE EVANS.

He turned the page. Next was a printed document, a block of text in the style of a report. His eyes darted across it, rushing ahead so it didn’t make sense. He had to focus, slow down his movements and drag his eyes back to the start to read slower, to be able to take in the words:

Callie Evans was the 5th victim discovered and shall be referred to ongoing as V5.

V5 was contacted initially using the same platform – a direct message from a social media picture sharing application. The offender’s phone contained a number of conversations with V5 using this format.

Danny gripped his nose. His eyes flicked back to the printed sign:

DANNY. YOU WILL NEED TO BE CALM AND YOU WILL NEED TO READ.

Behind it there was movement. The dark shape. A sound too and there was no doubt where it was coming from this time. Danny dropped the folder face down on the chair.

‘Hello?’ he said. There were no nerves now; it was anger that filled his words. ‘What the fuck is this?’ He searched the plastic sheeting in front of him. There were two zips he could see, looking like they were holding the sheets of plastic together across the room as a divider. The black smudge moved again. It was subtle enough for him to doubt what he was seeing. Then more noise – like a gurgle. He pulled one of the zips all the way up until it curved away from the middle. The plastic parted to reveal a pair of wide eyes that fixed on him. The gurgle came again. It was more earnest now, a man trying to communicate but unable to form words. The drastically shortened shotgun barrel between his teeth would be making that impossible.

‘Jesus. SHIT!’ Danny recoiled. One step back became a stumbled three. He looked around again, expecting other internal doors to open, for people to burst through with an explanation or even his mates with a camera and loud laughter. They’d got him, that was for sure. He would still be angry – furious even. But relieved at the same time.

They didn’t come.

He looked back over the scene in front of him. The plastic sheeting hung limp where it was unzipped to the floor and the man beyond was presented like he was suspended in a web. The ends of his toes were the only part of him touching the floor while his hands were wrapped tight behind his back. He had ropes around his chest and hips, taking his weight and tilting him forward. Another rope was tight under his chin, pulling his head up so they were now staring at each other. Two sturdy-looking bench weights hung off him, one from each shoulder, to keep his head in place. The shotgun was on a tripod stand, not unlike what he had just seen outside holding up a floodlight. It looked makeshift. The barrel was deep into his mouth, his jaw locked open to take it. It was so wide that the tattoo reaching out from his chest and up his neck was distorted by pulsing veins. The tattoo was of a bird with a large wingspan – an eagle perhaps. The man made more sounds from the back of his throat. It was all that he could do.