The Candy Man: One of the most extreme serial killer novels you'll ever read... (DCI Mac McGreavy Book 4) Read online

  The Candy Man

  A Serial Killer Thriller

  Gavin Graham

  Mad Skull Publishing House

  Contents

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  Down to the pit; a poem

  1. Not your average woman

  2. A serial murder epidemic

  3. Welcome to Scotland’s city of sin

  4. Let him have a touch, just a touch

  5. Fools in Hell

  6. The man from Aberdeen

  7. The scent of prey

  8. The ‘dance around death’ pantomime

  9. Lovers & killers

  10. Bloody steaks & bloody murders

  11. A life with kink & a regime of death

  12. Letters & videos

  13. A Shibari show & the promise of a Japanese swordsman

  14. A grave fit for a prostitute

  15. Words of provocation & mockery

  16. The Black Velvet Club

  17. Glasgow’s Behavioural Profiling Unit (BPU)

  18. Born into this

  19. Lost hope

  20. The Spanish Donkey (Murder 1)

  21. The shard & the churn

  22. The Blood Eagle (Murder 2)

  23. Vermin (Murder 3)

  24. Unanswered questions

  25. Mad magicians & serial killers

  26. The offering of a life of slavery

  27. Dreams, streams & uncouth abhorrence

  28. The lucid brilliance of death

  29. Love that may know evil & perish in its bleak shadow

  30. Collecting a slave

  31. The sins of Lara

  32. The death car

  33. A real-life house of horrors

  34. The taking of power

  35. The living room

  36. The Devil is touching you…

  37. The Lair de Sade

  38. The last supper

  39. Oven of bones

  40. The dark game

  41. Programmes & facilities

  42. Her last taste of lust: twisted, vile & evil

  43. Trip…switch… (memory lane, murder lane)

  44. You will reap what you sow & the world shall know

  45. The man with silver hair

  46. The return of a Jezebel

  47. The man in the chrome skull mask

  48. The ‘strappado’ method

  49. Isolating Samara

  50. The Breaking Wheel (Murder 4)

  51. A man emerges from the shadows of fear

  52. The Russian angle

  53. Storming residence evil

  54. The car in the ditch

  55. The Devil’s Queen

  56. A boy called Sam

  57. Killer parties

  58. The war room

  59. The angel of death

  Harlots fall into the sea; a poem

  Also by Gavin Graham

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  Down to the pit; a poem

  to smell death as I lurk at the corner, lain in wait, the master of all misery,

  run, hide, scamper, take a knife and slit your wrists,

  the tale is over, no more twists…

  to accept fate as I kiss your brow, you take a bow, it’s over now,

  fall, burn, a soul that was fire,

  Hell is a Void, you’re a talented liar…

  I send you off, down to the pit, the deeper you go the more you know,

  pleasure, pain, I’m going to kill you,

  the whips, the chains, you laugh as I thrill you,

  thrill you,

  kill you,

  The Void will fill you…

  the throne is there,

  mine to sit,

  I watch your descent,

  down to the pit,

  nameless face,

  lifeless base,

  falling,

  falling,

  down to the pit…

  Chapter 1

  Not your average woman

  She talked and walked like your average Glaswegian business woman.

  What made her different from all the others, however, was the fact that she had a ‘violent sex fetish’.

  How had that seed been planted?

  Well, if she were to self-analyse, she’d say that it all started with what could only be described as an acute, irrational fear of blood; that was the precursor.

  You have to face your fears.

  Right?

  Facing her fears meant indulging in scenarios where extreme levels of terror could be simulated and partly addressed via the prospect of being tortured and killed, forced to see her own blood spill whilst she was still alive, fighting for her life at the mercy of a brutal serial killer.

  So, she wasn’t exactly your average Glaswegian business woman, that was true. But, none of it really mattered, because she’d soon be dead for real…

  Chapter 2

  A serial murder epidemic

  “I can smell the whisky on your breath, Mac, you reek like you slept in a whisky barrel…”

  Mac looked through him as though reading ghostly scriptures upon his forehead, eyes dazed like washed-out marbles of wispy smoke, not even a shrug from his unresponsive and defiant posture. He looked awful, sickly, like a damn zombie. The thin lines around his nose, veins burst from years of alcohol abuse, seemed particularly prominent. His hair was a mess, the black tie fit for a funeral loose, and his pose an unmoveable slouch. On a good day, they said he looked like Johnny Cash but, today, he looked like he’d rolled out of a hedge backwards. He’d been hitting the booze heavily and he had his reasons.

  His police career was in tatters.

  He’d been hung out to dry and left on the scrap heap.

  After the death of convicted serial killer and violent rapist, Johnny Moffat a.k.a. The Casanova Killer, a review was done as to the efficiency and abilities of Police Scotland to acquire and apply criminal intelligence to prevent violent escalations amongst psychopaths in Glasgow. The gangs on the schemes and the drugs problem were worrying enough, but they were controllable to a degree, as was organised crime. This new ‘serial killer epidemic’, however, had struck a raw and desperate fear into the people of an already dark and gloomy city; an inert fear of the unseen stalker.

  Lone wolves.

  Highly-organised sociopaths.

  Invisible killers.

  Nobody felt safe; even the coppers were on edge.

  Things had spiralled even more fantastically out-of-control after chilling footage was broadcast on social media forums of a female Satanic murderer (also a police Detective) being sodomised on video by The Casanova Killer and begging him to end her life in the most violent and humiliating fashion possible.

  It was truly shocking.

  These were traits of the psyche, of this new breed of evil, that the people of Glasgow had never seen before.

  The nation was left scarred and traumatised by what it saw.

  SCOTLAND ONCE AGAIN THE MURDER CAPITAL OF EUROPE AS SERIAL HOMICIDE BECOMES AN EPIDEMIC was one of the headlines that got brandished internationally.

  This was all occurring amidst a major police enquiry wh
ich saw multiple accusations against DCI Mac McGreavy, accused of corruption, indecent behaviour, violent tendencies, substance abuse, as well as inappropriate consultations in official murder investigations with ‘pompous academics’ and ‘bogus fortune-tellers’. Mac denied most of it but he never denied his close friendship with Professor Sinclair or the fact that he had a blind fortune-teller as both an advisor and occasional lover, or, that he had a drug-using prostitute as a companion and soul-mate.

  The charges were eventually dropped with reluctance from ‘the top’ as the public saw Mac as one of their own and a modern-day hero; he was the man who got the job done.

  The Scottish Commissioner of Police, nevertheless, still suggested that a replacement be made and that Mac stand-down; it seemed like the right thing to do.

  But, there was a new plan, as there was always a new plan…

  Chapter 3

  Welcome to Scotland’s city of sin

  There was a large sign displayed in the window: NO FACE-MASK – NO ENTRY.

  A double espresso was her standard shot before a night of ropes, gags and whips in a BDSM fetish dungeon. Casandra had it served in a paper cup to takeaway, not wanting to stay on the premises, socially distanced from the bonehead creed with their over-sized phones, brain-washed slaves who were the would-be warriors of Facebook and Instagram.

  She put on her face-mask and left the busy train station café on Dunlop Street before taking an immediate right onto Argyle Street. A swaggering Caucasian youth passed wearing a hooded top that was adorned with the words: MY LIFE MATTERS.

  “Good for you,” she thought, a wry smirk breaking the line of her lips, walking with a confident bounce to a place where she’d be tied-up and humiliated before a happy crowd of paying fiends, who’d watch her with open mouths, perhaps indulging the wicked hand of self-pleasure.

  She thought again of the boy’s hoodie: MY LIFE MATTERS.

  It was the only real truth.

  At the end of the day, to be selfish, live amongst others who are selfish, to accept and be accepted, it was the secret to societal stability and happiness; all you had to do was work out who you were or who you wanted to be (the downside to this, of course, was that some people just wanted to be drunk and violent).

  Glasgow had never really changed in this respect, over the years, although it moved with the times and tried to be topical as well as progressive.

  Glasgow didn’t care if you were black, white or yellow.

  You could be Indian, Nigerian, Polish, Chinese or Korean.

  You could be male, female or part of the LGBT community.

  There was one rule and it applied to all – DON’T CROSS THE LINE – abide by that law and you will find your home and your people and you’ll live happily.

  The thing that really got Glaswegians riled was an internal feud and it didn’t involve outsiders. It was the ‘greens’ and the ‘blues’ – Celtic and Rangers – Catholics vs. Protestants – the sectarian divide was the only real divide and although it still existed it certainly wasn’t what it used to be; nonetheless, the wrong colour of face-mask could still get you killed quicker than any virus would.

  No matter what you were, inside or out, you’d find your community in Glasgow.

  Your tastes would be catered for: the gothic scene, punk music, death metal, techno beats and the latest designer drugs, prostitution, bondage, even murder…yes…no matter what your tastes were…they’d be catered for in Glasgow.

  The best part of it was?

  You wouldn’t be judged (unless, of course, you crossed the line…).

  Everything was covered in sleety frost, like the pavements and buildings were the inner contours of a long-dead, debowelled carcass. The cold wind tickled at the backs of her legs as she crossed the road and walked up Virginia Street.

  The felt the familiar wetness between her legs as walked to the BDSM club.

  The darkness of the sky swarmed over the blocks and as she raised her head that grey gloominess seemed so close that she’d be able to touch it if she reached up to the clouds. She smirked and frowned and marched with purpose to her venue, she was almost there, the darkness would become more intense as she entered the premises, her wetness becoming unbearable as she walked down steps that would be warmed by purple neon lights, down to the basement, where the darkest of erotic things happened.

  A drunk tramp staggered up to her with vomit in his beard, bluish fingers clutching onto a bottle of Buckfast, putrid alcoholic fumes spewed from his mouth as he spoke in a voice that was pure gravel. His breath smelled of disease, decay and damp wood. “Are you going to the dancing, Hen?” he spoke with the insane aura of a man who had nothing to lose.

  She winced at his smell and quickened her step smartly; she didn’t need such a turn-off at this crucial time of sexual anticipation.

  She was almost there and she now saw the sign for her place: THE SPARROW LOUNGE. Of course, that was not the actual place, her venue was only to be accessed via a key-coded door that led down to the basement of that particular building.

  The tramp with the red eyes that burned with madness and booze was right, in a sense, she was going to be dancing that night, but, hers would be a dance with death.

  Chapter 4

  Let him have a touch, just a touch

  Your screams in death will echo in the dungeon.

  This is your destiny, to die this way, so a fitting grave will be provided. You are nothing more than a misty spectre, a mistake that nobody in this life will remember or miss, you’ll die painfully like all the others. Those who I tormented as your sisters in sin, bound in chains and ropes, alongside you.

  Pleasured.

  Tortured.

  Killed.

  I am the ultimate sadist and you knew it before you came here, of your own free will, so ask and it shall be given.

  This was your choice.

  This was your mistake.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said a Japanese proverb. That is my advice to you and so it shall be. Remember, certain doors must never be opened, certain games never should be played.

  Wise men and prophets speak such truths; do they not?

  A dark place awaits you now.

  Play this game at your own peril.

  The Devil wants to touch you.

  Can you feel his fingertips trail down your spine?

  Moonless midnights.

  Shadowless intrusions.

  The Candy Man is here and you have bought the ticket to a grand show. Sit at my table. Revel in my madness. Allow me, please, to own you and destroy you.

  It’s time to beg, beg for your life now, so, do it. That’s what this is, that’s why you are here, it’s why you came to me.

  Didn’t you work it out yet?

  The Devil is touching you.

  Can you feel it?

  Good.

  Once he touches you, it’s game over, you’ll never be the same again…

  Chapter 5

  Fools in Hell

  “Cherish me, love me, for all that I give to you. My body and soul belong to you. Drink me like the water of life. Savour my bodily salts as the exotic elixir of a perfumed garden,” this is what you asked in return.

  Are you for real, now?

  Are you fucking stupid?

  I mock you and laugh as the architect of all your pain. The flames of Hell await you now and there shall be zero compassion where you are concerned, believe it, all my promises of joy were empty, but, those of pain and suffering were vastly underplayed. You were easily fooled, so, now you can be sullied and rot here in Hell. Your memory is tarnished as you fade now, you descend to the ashy pit, where harlots fall into the sea.

  The Abyss.

  But, remember, you walked into this with your eyes wide open. You wanted to be the victim, to play this role, you sought out captivity in an imagined place of BDSM fantasy: a full-on programme of erotic pain and dangerous pleasure.

  No ‘club rules’.

  No ‘club boundari
es’.

  No ‘safe-word’.

  You wanted sadomasochistic extremism and that world is mine to give, offered to promiscuous sinners born to be dominated by malevolent men like me, not free for you shall pay with your life. Nevertheless, a rare and exciting opportunity awaits you, to see light and darkness. You will look into the eyes of evil. Our nights together shall flame with perversity, animal sweat, and all that is inhumane.

  Yes.

  This unique experience will change you, in the last moments of this life, and in the hellishly omnipresent agony of the next.

  This is what you wanted.

  Am I wrong?

  Isn’t this what you asked for?

  I shall grant you this wish, so, be a good girl now and get ready to die.

  Chapter 6