Three murders in a month. 

The number played on his mind as Det. Insp. Stark wearily climbed the stairs to his front door. It felt like he’d hardly slept the whole time. 

Three men killed the same way. All found suspended by the neck. Rope choking the life from their wretched being.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. He dropped his keys and jacket on the chair by the wall and walked across the room to the window.

It was a serial killer, of that there could be no doubt. The method was identical. It had to be the same murderer. Then there were the victim’s names. All three named Clifford? It couldn’t be a coincidence. 

Stark picked up a convenient bottle, unscrewing it as he stared out into the bleak, rainswept night. He took a thirsty swallow and allowed the fiery liquor to infuse his aching body. Rubbing his eyes he let out a jaw-stretching yawn. He felt about ready to collapse.

There was a movement outside, in the corner of his eye. His body tensed, eyes darting, searching for it again. No, not outside, a reflection in the glass, something behind him, something in the room.

He spun round. The bottle falling to the floor with a thud. There, in the corner, unmistakable even in the dim light, a man staring back at him, inhuman grin on his face. And in his hand, gently swaying, a dark coil of rope. 

Stark felt his body go cold. He looked into the stranger’s eyes. Black soulless eyes. The eyes of a killer the newspapers were already calling …..