How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(60)

‘Okay, sure.’

He disappears and comes back with two wineglasses of Champagne. ‘I couldn’t find the proper long ones.’

‘Flutes.’

He looks at me, his brow furrows slightly.

‘Champagne glasses are called flutes.’

‘Oh. Right. Yeah. Them. I couldn’t find them.’

‘It’s fine.’ I take a drink from him and take a sip. He’s right, it’s delicious. I need to keep a clear head though so can’t get too used to it. Although I really don’t feel like I’m in the company of a dangerous sexual predator. More like a child.

Raphe scoots along the sofa, closer to me again.

‘So. What’s it like being famous?’ he asks.

‘You probably know more about it than me.’

‘Why would I?’

He really was at the back of the queue when the smarts were being handed out.

‘Well, you’ve played for England,’ I say. ‘All I’ve done is post some photos on Instagram.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He laughs. ‘It’s a different kind of famous. You’re really pretty. Even prettier in real life.’

‘Thanks. That’s sweet.’

‘You’ve always been my favourite Instagram model. Your bikini pics from Marbella were hot!’

‘That’s really nice of you to say. I’m not a model though. I’m an Influencer.’

‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment then?’

‘Er. No. I’ve actually just broken up with someone.’

‘Looking for some rebound action then?’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s what you girls do, isn’t it? Get over one man by getting under another and all that?’

‘That’s actually really disrespectful. And no, I’m not looking for some “rebound action” as you put it. Maybe I should leave?’ I stand up.

He looks mortified. ‘Oh God, no. Sorry, I honestly didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just a bit nervous. I always get like this around beautiful women. Please don’t go yet.’

He looks so earnest that I actually do sit back down.

I need to get a grip on myself.

He is not a nice man, he is a sexual predator. Those messages Tor showed us were disgusting. That’s why I’m here, to get justice for that girl and the hundreds like her, not to sit here chatting about how to get over a break-up.

‘Could I use your loo?’ I ask.

‘Sure.’ Raphe hops up and leads me back down the corridor. ‘Shout if you get lost on the way back.’

The cloakroom is as opulent as the rest of the place, all white marble and chrome fittings. I rummage around in my bag until I find what I’m looking for. Then I head back into the living room. Raphe is sat with his back to me. His neck prone.

‘Didn’t get lost then? Did you decide you wanted a dip in the hot tub after all?’

‘Not quite,’ I say as I plunge the syringe deep into the skin at the back of his neck.

He’s confused when he comes round and keeps looking at me like a dog who can’t understand what he’s done wrong. He’s fighting against his duct-tape restraints. Or duck tape, as he would probably say if it wasn’t over his mouth too.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know why this is happening,’ I tell him as I stand over him, twirling my knife. ‘I know all about you and how you treat women.’

He’s grunting against the tape, shaking his head frantically.

‘Oh yes, I saw the disgusting messages you sent. All of Twitter did before your manager magicked them away, am I right?’

He’s squirming harder now, shaking his head, his eyes huge with fear. Good.

‘Scared are you? You think money and power gets you everything. Well not this time.’ I straddle him and feel around his neck for the vein I’m looking for. He’s struggling harder now, which is starting to annoy me, desperately trying to tell me his lies through his gag. Tears are running down his cheeks. I make one swift incision in his neck and watch in morbid glee as his pulse pumps spurts of blood all over the white floor. I’m mesmerised by it for a bit. The contrast of the red on the pure white marble is quite beautiful. I’m brought out of my reverie by a grunting and gasping sound. I’d almost forgotten Raphe was here.

He’s still trying to say something.

I turn away and clean up as I wait for him to bleed out, getting rid of any sign I was here. This includes washing the wineglasses.

‘Flutes,’ I tell the mess on the floor. ‘That’s the trouble with footballers. Money can’t buy class.’

When he eventually stops gurgling and squirming, I crouch down beside him on the floor and pull his lids over his eyes. He really does look so young. It’s difficult to equate him with the disgusting potential rapist from the Twitter screenshots.

Satisfied that I’ve got rid of all traces of me being there, I head out of the front door and back down the stairs to my car. As I drive the short distance home, I wait for the euphoria to hit me. That wonderful buzz that comes with the kill. The pure, unfiltered joy of knowing I’ve rid the world of one more sexual predator.

But it doesn’t come.





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