Chapter 1

Daphne had now been dead for three days; and this time there had been no-one to discourage The Vulture.
The bastard had started killing when I was still Alf's junior partner; a lad just out of school and relegated to fetching and carrying. Marjory made the tea, though.
Then came my baptism of fire.

The day had dawned cold and grey; lat autumn. It wasn't snowing, but it might have been. I'd turned up early that morning for no particular reason, hurrying along the wet streets as the wind nibbled away at my cheeks and fingers.
The office was high up in a grey eye-sore and the lift was broken yet again. I suppose, subconsciously, I'd arrived early knowing I'd have to climb the eight or nine flights of stairs, resting at the half-way stage.
Arriving at the right floor I stopped long enough to tuck in my shirt and wipe the sweat out of my eyes.
My name is Sam, by the way. I'm not exactly unfit, but stamina isn't a commodity I possess in abundance. I'd failed my GCSE's and applied for a job as "junior assistant; preferably below the age of thirty." I think Alf had been after a bird at first, but as I was the only applicant he grudgingly took my under his wing.
Marjory was already at work when I entered the office and hung my coat up; after flinging my cap at the hat-stand and missing.
"Morning James Bond," Marjory said without looking up from the pile of forms on her desk.
"Alright Blofeld," I called back and ducked to avoid the inevitable magazine.
The office was cramped, yet remarkably tidy. Three grey filing cabinets stood in a row next to the single thin window. Marjory's desk was the picture of efficiency. Everything had its place in her view, and that included me. I grabbed a cup of water from the butt and picked my cap up from the floor. I had five minutes before I was due to start and I was going to make them last.
Stepping lightly over to my own small, superfluous desk, I sat down and rested my feet on the unvarnished wood. Inside the single draw were an old dog-eared copy of a music magazine and a well-loved copy of Chesterton. I took out the book and began to read, drinking in the words as though they were a drug. Some people have thought me strange for taking so much pleasure from books but I just ignored them. There was an old baker light phone on my desk and, as I leant deeper into my chair, my feet slid across the desk and knocked the phone off with a stomach-wrenching crash.
"Right Sam, get your coat!" bellowed Alf from his office.
I froze, my heart skipping a beat or two. It was one of those moments when everything seems to just cease.
Alf came out of his office wearing a duffle coat and deerstalker; his brief-case tucked under one arm.
"What are you sitting there for doom-brain?" he asked, his face completely neutral, "You're coming with me; I might need a hand with this job and you've always wanted to have a go at this."
I stood, donned my cap and coat and followed the straight back of my employer out of the door.
"Good luck Father Brown," said Marjory. She was a practicing her wintry smile in a hand mirror tarnished with verdigris  as she spoke, once again not bothering to look my way.

Alf's old Nissan Micra, despite an odd rattle, was a reliable piece of junk he'd bought because it was cheap to run. We were rattling along the road at just under thirty miles an hour when Alf finally spoke.
"I won't go all round the houses lad; you're not going to like what you're going to see today. If you feel you can't take this, tell me. Don't be a pratt if you don't have to."
He was right.
The room was covered in blood. In the centre on a small bed lay the flayed body of a middle-aged woman, her face contorted in an expression of pure fear and agony.
Her flesh had not merely been removed, but cut up and arranged in a sick message on the wall.
"Wales is nice," read the message. I couldn't help throwing up.

Fast-forward now a couple of years.
I was eighteen and a full-time partner of Alf, though still young for the business.
My friend and mentor was in his late forties and finally in a happy marriage with two children who called me "Uncle Sammy".
I, on the other hand, had moved to the Newcastle Brown stage of my life and was starting to develop an accompanying beer-belly.
Alf and I had been assigned to hunting for "The Vulture," as the papers called the killer. I've no idea where the name came from - probably someone's idea of a ‘cool name'. I didn't care what the bastard was called; I just wanted him caught.
"If I'd been there-"
"If you'd been there, I'd have told you to fuck off!"
I forget what the conversation was about, but Alf and I were enjoying one of the rare jovial breaks from searching for a brutal murderer,
"Excuse me," said Marjory, poking her head round the door, "I've got Mr. Forbes on the phone for you Alf."
Mr. Gerald Cuthbert Forbes QC was the most respected man in the city; he was also the most feared. A champion of all he perceived to be good in his own small world, woe-betide the man or woman who crossed him.
Of course, being Alf's cousin, he was good enough to give our little operation a bit of extra help now and then.
"Hello Ges," said Alf as he picked up the phone, "Yes I do know what's been going on for the past two years and I also know that we've had this conversation every week for those same two years. Now, if you'll just get off my back and let us get on with our work, I think we'd all be much happier."
He slammed the receiver down and snorted in false contempt for his cousin. He didn't hate Forbes; just wasn't keen on the bloke's idea of how things should work.
Anyway, we had been on the case for two years and were getting nowhere. This was due to the sporadic nature of the killings. They weren't confined to one gender or one echelon of society. Men, women and, worst of all, even children had met their deaths over those past two years. The latest, Daphne Williams, was the worst of the lot. A girl of thirteen or fourteen.  As usual, flayed alive and a message spelt out with the skin. Only this time she'd obviously been raped as well.
With each new killing, the messages became more and more warped. I'd have called them cheesy if they weren't done so sickeningly.
The latest one had been one word; "South."
After the first killing, we'd taken note of the message and assumed the killer was just a sick maniac. Not so. A week later an elderly gentleman had been found in his bathroom in Cardiff. It was obvious what the messages were intended for; but why would the killer risk us interpreting the message in time and catching them?
Alf was a complete blank as far as deduction was concerned. He could solve petty, obvious crimes, but this was out of his league; mine too.
Still, Forbes had assigned us to the case and so we had to get on with it.
"What I don't understand," Alf said, changing the subject back to the matter at hand, "Is how the murderer chooses their victim. It's not like Jack the Ripper - you know; all the victims were prostitutes and killed at night - there's just no pattern I can see."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. If the victims were all male or female or from one particular background it'd make sense."
"Sorry Alf," said Marjory, again leaning round the door, "It's past five, I was wondering if I could get off home."
"That's fine Marjory, have a good one," called Alf cheerfully.

Marjory's body was found the next morning.