All through this clear and present danger, people just got on with their lives, and went about their ordinary weekly shop.  Some people were shopping for Christmas with shops offering discounts on certain goods.  Other shops offered a ‘Christmas Club' even with Christmas being only seven weeks away.

                        The bakers shop was selling Christmas cakes already, Christmas puddings; all over town, people were preparing for the festive time of year.  There was a hubbub of conversation about who was celebrating what way etc., but there was also the talk of the Night-watchman who stalked the town.  No one knew just who or when he would strike again.  Fear was the key to this guy and the police were no closer to catching him.

                        Tom Marsh was also doing some shopping in the high street.  He was with Sheila and Gabby on one of his rare days when he was not on the case.

                        "We need some meat love!" exclaimed Sheila as the family group neared the butchers.

                        "What are we getting mum?"

                        "I thought we'd get a bit of beef in for Sunday - that's if your dad's in for a meal Sunday!"

The pair laughed, but Tom's mind was miles away.  He still had a lot to think about and a lot to do on this case.  He followed them in aimlessly, standing at the back of the butchers.

                        "Yes my dear, what can I get you?" asked Jimmy Lamb, the owner of the shop.

                        "Can you give me your best beef joint?"

                        "Silver or topside?"

                        "Tom, what do you think?" ...  "Tom!  Silver or topside of beef?"

Marsh suddenly stirred from his thinking:

                        "Oh, erm...  Topside I think."

Outside the shop, the world was carrying on as normal.  The number forty two bus to Manchester had just picked up passengers, and was on its way out of Bexton.  Two ladies were arguing over the price of flowers in the shop next door.  Couples walked down Sutton Road hand in hand.  Everything was normal.

                        "Come on Tom, let's go home and see to the dogs.  They need walking."

Tom did as it was suggested by his wife.  He was devoted to the family, but devoted also to police work.  It was a constant struggle to juggle the two.  He would be out walking the dogs and his mobile would go, and he would have the seven minute journey into work, to "sort out a problem".  He longed for the day he would retire from the force; maybe after this last case was solved would be a good a time as any.

                        For the next couple of months, everything was quiet - no leads, no clues, no contact with the Night-watchman.  It was un-nerving for the officers involved in the case.  They covered it from every angle.  The soldiers out on leave were no help; either drunk over the weekend or with their wives ‘celebrating'.  No-one knew how or when the next victim would pop up.  No-one knew when the killer would make contact.  Perhaps he was inside.  They checked the records of all those that had been sent down in the last two months.  Nearly everyone had been in police custody awaiting trial, or in prison awaiting trial.  Except for one name.  Terry ‘Banger' Morris; an ex-Marine, solidly built, banged up for GBH in a gay bar.  Apparently had one too many and disagreed with what someone said, so went looking for a gay - in a gay bar.  Bashed them stupid and ended up with one step from death for the gay.  Arrested by six policemen, held overnight and sentenced the next day at Bexton Magistrates Court.  The Magistrates were generous and lenient; Morris was sent down for two months.  Could this be the Night-watchman?

                        Everyone was preparing for the Christmas holidays with the Gazette and Evening News closing down for one week.  The final post arrived with a small packet addressed to The Editer only, in red ink and brown paper.  The clerk handed it to Max Thornton, Editor in chief of the newspaper who was preparing to go to the party later that afternoon.

                        "My God!"  Max called his assistant Jill.

                        "Should we open it or send it to the police station?"

                        "Open in.  Definitely open it.  It says the Editer only."

Jill looked, and then she looked puzzled.

                        "He's spelled Editor wrong!"  Jill paused.  "Didn't he send one like that to the police?"

                        "That's right, he did.  What the hell does he want with me?  Maybe it's a crank."

Max opened the packet and tipped out the contents onto the desk.  It contained a Christmas card and an audio tape.  He read the card:

      Hello Editer and a Merry Christmas to you and all your staff.  Please listen to the audio tape.  It contains all the details that the police won't release to the press.  Maybe you would like to release them?  Have a great Christmas.  Bye for now, your friend, NW.

                        "God damn creep!" said Jill.

Max went to the audio system and placed in the cassette tape.  With his mouth going dry with tension, he pressed PLAY.

Max switched the tape off.  He paused and looked at Jill before going to the drinks cabinet.  Max poured himself a large whisky which he drank down in one go.

                        "I don't believe this Jill.  Why me, why now?"

                        "What do we do?"

                        "I guess we have to print it.  Run it as a special."

He called an emergency meeting.  It was decided by the few, to go ahead without the permission of the police.

At the corner of Sutton Road and Bristol Street, Bexton, a news-stand reads:

BEETLE HIDDEN IN VICTIM

Many people walking past got a copy from the vendor.  It made shocking news.  One of them picking up her paper was Mary McKenzie, the mother of the first victim, Caroline.  She was carrying wine home under her arm, when she dropped it.  She had read about her own daughter, and how the killer revealed to the paper how he had abused her dead body. 

Mary was furious; furious at the killer, furious at the press for printing such rubbish, furious at the police for lying to her, but most furious and hurt at Tom Marsh, who she had always counted a friend.  She went straight round to Marsh's house.

                        "Mary come in love," Sheila said "let me give you a hug."

                        "No, no hugs.  Have you read this?"

Sheila read it with disbelief.  Even she did not know of this kind of horror.  Tom was upstairs shaving, and getting ready for the staff party.

                        "Tom?"

                        "Yeah love?"

                        "Erm... come down will you.  We have a visitor!"

                        "Who's that?"

                        "Mary.  Mary McKenzie!"

He quickly finished off, put a polo neck on and came down all smiles, but when he saw Mary with a thunderous look on her face, his expression changed.

                        "Something wrong Mary?"

                        "Tom, have a read of this.  Tell me you don't know anything about it!" his wife said chidingly.

Tom read it.  All of it.

                        "My God in heaven.  What the hell are the press doing?"

                        "Is it true Tom?" pressed Mary.

                        "I'm sorry Mary, I ... I ... I tried to protect you and Malcolm.  I didn't want you to know because ... well I love you two too much.  I am so sorry Mary!"

                        "I understand Tom, but I was just so hurt.  It was just such a shock.  Did you order the press not to release it?"

                        "No, I ordered the pathologist report to be silenced to both you and the press.  The original one went to you and details went to the press.  I didn't want you hurting more than you were going through love."

                        "So where did the press get this information?"

                        "That's what I intend to find out after the holidays.  But first I want a word with Angela.  Will you excuse me?"

Tom went into the study of his home.  He locked the door and dialled Angela Skinner on his mobile.

                        "Hello Tom?"

                        "Angela.  Have you got a copy of tonight's Gazette and Evening News?"

                        "No, the paper boy won't be delivering until the twenty seventh."

Tom paused.

                        "I er ... need to ask you something; and it's not an easy thing to ask a friend.  Did you or anyone from your team leak information to the press regarding Caroline McKenzie or any of the other victims?  I've just had her mother round here."

                        "No way Tom.  It's more than our jobs are worth.  I am sure none of my team would do anything like that either.  Why?"

                        "I need to see you on the twenty seventh for just an hour.  Say ten o'clock?"
                        "Sure, where?"

                        "Usual place.  Bring the autopsy reports on Caroline McKenzie - both of them."

                        "Okay Tom, have a great Christmas.  Love to Sheila and the kids."

                        "Thanks Angela.  See you soon."

Marsh unlocked the door to the study and went out into the hall.  He finished off getting ready to go to the staff Christmas party.  It took Sheila another twenty minutes to get ready but soon, they were on their way.

                        Most of the team were already there, and had drunk quite a bit before Tom and Sheila had arrived.  Sandy Denis noticed his boss first and called out to him.  He motioned him to go over to their "team" table.

                        "Hi guys!" said Tom as he and Sheila arrived.  "This must be the biggest table in the joint!"

                        "We got the best boss!" laughed Sam Fitch.  Ella sat beside him with their only son, Mark next to Ella.  Mark was twenty one.

                        "Did Rachel come with you?" he enquired.

                        "No, she's gone to a friends house, and then gone clubbing.  I doubt we will see her until moonrise tomorrow."  Tom laughed.

                        "I hope she'll get up to open her presents and then have Christmas dinner with the family.  I've got my mum coming over tomorrow", replied Sheila.

Everyone settled down to drinks and dancing, more drinks and more dancing, a comic turn from one of the coppers, a bit of karaoke, awards and presentations.  Then there was time for more dancing and drinking.  In-between, all this they had a running hot and cold buffet.

                        The dancing and merriment carried on until two in the morning.  By this time everyone was well watered and fed, and couples started drifting off home around two fifteen.  Some actually stayed at the Cavendish Hotel, it saved going home.

                        Tom had actually danced and talked with Angela Skinner, who was dressed in a blue chiffon dress, showing off her natural curves.  These curves were usually kept hidden by the white baggy suits at the scene of a murder or suicide; but tonight Angela showed off more of her skin than was normal.

                         Everyone noticed how beautiful she looked with her make-up and her hair done up; especially Sheila who noticed how low-cut her dress was.  Tom made up for any kind of jealousy she thought, when he paid more attention to her, and paid her complements.  Was that his way, or just a way to get round his wife?  What did he really feel about Angela Skinner?

                        Angela Skinner's red Ford People Carrier pulled into the deserted track leading to the abandoned rail shed - the scene of many meetings with Marsh.  It was cold, and decidedly lonely.  Angela had been a widow for six years after her husband was killed in a train tragedy.  Although a strong woman, Angela went through a traumatic time hitting the bottle hard and almost ruining her own career.  That's were Tom came to the rescue.  Tom pulled her through it.  Now they are very close friends.  Some would say too close.

                        Tom arrived a few minutes later in his Jaguar XJS.  He pulled up next to the Ford People Carrier and got out.

                        "Hello Tom.  Got the stuff you wanted.  It is in the Carrier."

                        "Great.  Lead the way."

Angela opened the sliding door of the PC and allowed Marsh to enter first.  He sat down and pulled the table down.  Angela shut the door and sat opposite.

                        "Shall I leave the heater on?  I'll need the engine running that's all."

                        "No Angela."  Tom touched her hand lightly.  "Don't waste your fuel."

The pair settled down to read the pathologist reports from every case comparing notes as they went.  After half an hour, Angela reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed a grey bag.  She opened it and took out a flask of steaming hot coffee.  Pouring one for Tom, Angela placed it in front of him.  Without looking up he grunted his approval.

                        "I guess that means thanks."

He finally looked up, a bit bewildered.

                        "The grunt - er ... thanks?"

                        "Oh, er ... yeah, sorry.  It's a kind of habit I get into."

Angela laughed.  Tom then started to laugh.  The atmosphere began to change and become more relaxed.  Suddenly there was a crack.

                        Tom dived out of the door.  Looking round he couldn't see anyone, but he knew someone had just taken a shot at them.  The bullet had ricochet off the bonnet of the People Carrier.  God knows where it would end up, but the mark was on the bonnet.

                        "Drive home Angela and lock your doors.  I'll see you soon."

Tom got back into his Jaguar and drove off at speed towards Miller's End, just a quarter of a mile from the old yard.  He found nothing, not even a shell.  It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.  ‘If he's been clever' he thought, ‘he will have picked up that bloody shell'.  Tom would just have to wait for his next move.

                        "I thought he said he was opening today?"

                   "Yeah, well that's what he advertised in his window.  Re-opening January 2^nd at 9:00 am to 4:00 pm.  It's there still in the window look."

                        "I wonder why he's not in.  I bet he had one too many last night."

The two women walked off towards the market together.  A few hours later, they walked passed the shop and it was still closed.

                        "It's not like Jimmy!  He never did miss an opportunity to make a bit of money."

                        "Yeah, he must be ill.  I know where he lives, I'll knock and see if he is alright or I may just get our Billy to go round.  It may be better if Billy goes round."

                        "Alright Ada, I'll see you soon.  All the best love, ta-ra"

                        "Ta-ra"

Ada walked toward the bus stop.  There was a bus due in five minutes, so she waited.  Things were going round in her head, about what might be wrong with Jimmy Lamb, the local butcher.  Suddenly a cold chill hit her.  Surely he couldn't be a victim of the Night-watchman?  Oh the thought!  ‘Don't be so silly woman, what possible motive could he have?' she told herself sternly.  Ada shuddered at the thought.  The bus arrived and Ada climbed on board.

                        Back home, husband Billy endured the story recounted to him, in great detail of what she and her friend Phyllis had been up to, and why they had to get the lamb from Smartways instead of Jimmy Lamb's butcher shop.

                        "Perhaps we should call the police just to be on the safe side", determined Billy.

                        "Ooh no!  We don't want to make a nuisance of ourselves.  Just go round Billy and knock on his door.  See if he's alright!"

                        "Don't be daft woman.  I still say we should call the police for safety's sake."

Ada looked at her husband, partly wanting reassurance that her theory was wrong, partly wanting him to go and find out, out of morbid curiosity.

                        "Well do what you must Billy!  You always do."

Billy paused, and then nodded to his wife of fifty two years.

                        "Hello, police please", Billy said after dialling 999.

                        Blue lights said it all.  The coroner's car carrying Angela Skinner arrived at the scene.  Marsh arrived six minutes earlier and was already inside the modern semi-detached property.  Angela walked in through an array of detectives and uniformed officers.

                        "Where is he?"

A uniformed officer replied, "In the back room Ma'am.  Worst case I've seen."

Angela walked through the hallway, past the kitchen and into the back room.  The sight that met her made her take a sharp intake of breath.

                        "My God!"

                        "Skinner!  Not a good start to the New Year."  Marsh said.

The body was hanging from a butcher's hook, or rather what was left of the body.  It had been completely skinned.  The skin ‘wrapping' was lying on the floor underneath the body.

                        "You'd better look at this, inside the skin."

Angela peered closer.  Moving the skin with tweezers, she uncovered a dead Night-watchman beetle.

                        "It's our guy alright.  Damn him!  You know he is always one step ahead of us, until we can get a lead."

                        "Yeah I know it's my problem this is Skinner.  My neck on the line.  We really do need a break on this."

Marsh looked around on the floor. 

                        "There must be some kind of evidence that he left behind.  Some kind of DNA we can use.  Get forensics down here and I need a complete search."

                        "Good morning gentlemen and er... ladies."

Marsh looked around the room scanning the faces of the now familiar team.

                        "I hope you all enjoyed a lovely Christmas and New Year break?

As most of you know, our killer has struck again.  This time it was a butcher by the name of Jimmy Lamb; aged fifty two, stocky build, five foot seven.  No signs of a break-in, therefore we are assuming that Jimmy knew his assailant."

                        "What was his quarrel with Jimmy?" inquired Sandy Denis.

Marsh sighed.

                        "What was his quarrel with any one of the victims?  Anyway, we have a report from the pathologist which states that there was no sign of a struggle, suggesting the attack came as a complete surprise and from behind.  Death was instant.  Neck snapped, and then throat slit, left to right head almost severed; skinning took place after death, and was almost whole.  Incision down front of body from neck.  Remainder of body hung on a butcher's hook in the back room of home.  Approximate time of death - December 31^st 2004, around midnight.  Night-watchman beetle found in the folds of the skin."

There was stunned sickened silence in the room.

                        "It sounds like the killer is trying to disassociate himself sir, by defacing, or skinning the victims, so that when he looks on them, he doesn't see the human being, rather a piece of meat."

                        "Thank you Claire for that analysis."

Claire Hunter was the psychoanalyst called onto the team to configure a profile of the killer.  She had worked all over the country, and was once called in to profile the Yorkshire Ripper at the height of his spree.

                        "We also had another letter from him.  Sam, put it on the overhead."

They all turned to see the letter that was now on the wall.

      Hello Inspektor.  Happy New Year.  I trust you and your super team have all had a terrific Christmas, I know I have.  I sent that tape to Mister Thornton at the Gazette, and I know he responded wonderfully.  He wasn't skared to print what he heard.  He is after all a journalist.  The people had to know the truth; something YOU have still not got the bottle for.  I had hoped for more from you Inspektor Marsh.  I hope I did not frighten you and Miss Skinner too much when I shot at you but I just wanted to warn you, that I can kill you at any time I want to.  I am an expert shot.  Now pay attenshun.  I will leave you with a clue to the next victim.  If you get the clue quickly, you will save a life and possibly end this game, if not, someone else will pay with their lives, and the game goes on.

                        SHE WENT DOWN TO THE DEPTHS OF THE CRYPT
                        TO TRY TO SOLVE THE WRITING ON THE WALL
                        HER DEATH WAS QUICK, DEEP IN THE PIT
                        BUT ‘TIS STILL A MYSTERY TO ONE AND ALL.
            Good bye Inspektor Marsh.  See you soon.  I know every move you make.

                         The Night-watchman"