6:00 pm.

Malcolm was seated at the kitchen table having just completed a meal when he turned to face the clock on the wall. The time was six o'clock. He downed the last dregs of tea and gazed at a pile of small objects lying on the table before him. Hopefully he had recovered all the little hooks and eyes from the bottom of the oven before setting light the next batch of clothing. He poked the tiny objects with a finger and tried to remember just how many there were on the garments incinerated. Prior to today he had destroyed two bras and one suspender belt. But for all his effort he could not recall just how many little hooks had been present on each.
On the table alongside the hooks lay Katie's bra and suspender belt. These were the ones she had presented to him on that wonderful night before going away for Christmas. He counted the number of small hooks on each of the garments. There was not much to count. There were just two on the bra and two on the suspender belt. This also concurred with the bra he had just destroyed. That too was fastened by just two small hooks. If these were typical examples, then the three items previously destroyed should yield six hooks and six little rings. That was precisely the number on the table. He counted the charred remains once again. He had exactly six of each in his possession.
Before meeting Katie his sum knowledge of bras and suspender belts had been limited to looking at those in his mother's catalogue. He felt certain that some garments held three hooks but could not recall, no matter how hard he tried, just how many there were on the ones he had burned. With only six found he hoped that he had recovered the lot.
Still deep in thought he rose from the table and crossed the kitchen floor. Spread out in a long line across a work surface rested eight sketches. He followed the row. He had already laid them out in order of preference. At one end lay the last drawing made. He still liked this one the best. Next to it stood a sketch taken from exactly the opposite angle. It showed the scarred back of the woman with the outline of one breast just showing to the front. Next to this sketch stood what he considered to be his third favourite. Again it was a drawing taken from the rear, but this time sketched from the opposite side. This one showed the welt beneath the armpit that he liked so much in the first preference. He swapped the second and third round, then after further though switched them back again. It was such a difficult choice to make.
His plan was to select only two for completion. If eventually both were to go in the brochure, then a matching pair from opposite sides would be his first and second preference. Thus the reason for the present arrangement. On the other hand, if only one was to be selected, then he would like to offer Mr. McTavish a choice of perspectives, one from the front and one from the rear. Using this logic he preferred drawings one and three as an alternative. He pondered over his dilemma. Should he therefore complete all three? He was uncertain of what to do. In the end he decided to leave the final decision until the morning when he intended to finish the artwork.
He considered what best to do next. His model Davina Townsend would not be around forever. He already had plans to transfer all three women to a third floor storeroom before Katie appeared. On arrival, if all went well, he would present her with Tracy Goodyear, but nobody else.
With the fiery redhead returning in just two days time, it was therefore imperative that the sketches be finished by tomorrow night. At present all drawings lacked hands with the pencil outlines terminating at the wrists. To finish what he had started he needed to first swap Davina Townsend's manacles for the thumbscrews,  then add the missing hands before going on to add colour and detail in the background.
But all that was something for tomorrow. Tonight he had other plans. He needed to visit the hospital to take one last look around and confirm that Tracy Goodyear remained a regular visitor. If all went well, then tomorrow night would be the big night, and he would have Katie's most hated person captured and imprisoned in his dungeon.
With a multitude of worries besetting his mind, Malcolm made his way to the dungeon. Before setting out for the hospital he needed to check on his prisoners. There was a possibility that he may be gone for quite some time and he wanted to make certain that all was safe down below.
On reaching the dungeon, all was quiet. All three woman were either sleeping or unconscious. It was difficult to tell either way. He moved to the rack and looked down upon the naked body of WPC Georgina Watkinson. She looked peaceful enough lying there with her head to one side. He had once promised himself a bonus. Spread out the way she was, she was his for the taking. But time was running short, and to indulge seemed inappropriate whilst she remained unconscious. And before doing anything he needed to know whether she was a virgin or not. He shrugged his shoulders at what might have been and set about unbuckling the leather straps from the wrists and ankles. Perhaps he would get another opportunity tomorrow after completing his drawings.
Once freed Malcolm dragged the lifeless body across the floor to the vacant cell. He laid her down crosswise on the floor with head and shoulders propped against one side wall and with feet touching the other. He then set fetters about the ankles, and with another short chain and two padlocks locked the links between the legs to the ring set in the back wall. He tested the anchorage. Nothing moved. This was the same leg-irons arrangement used to restrain the sulking little girl in the next cell, so the method had already been well tried and tested. He now felt safe to venture out in the sound knowledge that no-one could possibly escape.
He stepped back, closed the gate and set the padlock. He was now in a mood to visit the hospital.

7:00 pm.

Driving the company van, Malcolm entered the hospital grounds and followed the signs and white arrows towards the visitors' car park. The area was well illuminated by bright orange lights atop vast towering posts. He drove the van as far as it would go along a side access route, then turned to traverse the back lane edged by trees and shrubs. There were a lot more cars parked on this occasion with very few spaces left available. This part of the car park, being the furthest away from the hospital buildings held the most free spaces. But even those were very few and far between. Over the entire car parking area, which must have catered for well over three hundred vehicles, there were less than ten free spaces.
Malcolm drove on, all the time looking for one car in particular. Having reached the far end of the rear lane he felt disappointed. Richard Davies's blue estate was nowhere to be seen. He turned into the next lane and driving very slowly kept looking right and left. Again, on reaching the end, he still had not located the car in question. He moved on, zigzagging the lanes until he neared the front. Somehow this was not meant to be in his plans, and he started to feel very disappointed. Then suddenly he spotted a car of the same make and colour he was seeking parked almost at the point where he had entered. He turned into the first lane and slowed down almost to a standstill to catch the number plate. He smiled. At least he had located the car. But what next? If Tracy Goodyear parked like this again tomorrow night then he would have to radically alter his plans.
Malcolm continued along to the end of the lane and swung into the main drive that passed in front of the main hospital buildings. There was nothing here left for him to do. All he could do now was return to the Amusement Park and hopefully modify his plans accordingly. Somehow he really did expect the car to be parked along the back row, and now all his scheming needed to be drastically revised.
At the entrance to the casualty ward, where bold yellow lines and notices indicated that the area was strictly reserved for ambulances only, a police car was parked. For a moment he thought how typical. If he had left his van there then the police would be down on him like a ton of bricks. He drove on seething. As he passed the car the police officer in charge was just coming out of the building. Malcolm recognised the man immediately. It was the same beanpole figure that had greeted him through the bars of the gate. This was PC Grantham, and on refection the same panda car as was parked at the entrance to his gate. Malcolm drove out of the hospital grounds still fuming and made his way to the centre of town.
Once again the story was a whole lot different to before. The last time he had ventured this way was on the evening of Christmas Day. On that occasion practically everywhere was deserted. Now people milled about everywhere. His plan was to park the van along the sea front and take a gentle stroll to the end of the jetty. From here he would deposit the policewoman's incombustible items into the sea. He found a parking spot along the sea wall and got out. On the opposite side of the road there were a couple of pubs and a fish and chip shop. There were several youths, mainly teenagers of Malcolm's own age hanging about and making a lot of noise. He watched them all go into one of the pubs before moving on. Typical, he was thinking again. Not one of them was over eighteen years of age yet they all marched into the pub as bold as brass.
On reaching the jetty he stopped. He could hear more youths shouting and bawling way down the far end. There was no way he could dump the items at sea with so many people about. He looked around. There were a couple of benches and a waste bin over on the other side of the road. He crossed over. Perhaps if he were to put a zip in this waste bin, then another one somewhere else he could lose all the items on his return to the van. But even that planned failed. As he approached the area a courting couple arrived with fish and chips in their hands. They promptly sat down on a bench and set about scoffing down the contents of their wrappers.
Malcolm moved on without stopping. This was not going to work. There were far too many people about. What he really needed was somewhere quiet to dump the policewoman's items. He reached the fish and chip shop and looked inside. There was only one person being served, and she was just about to walk out. On impulse he stepped in and ordered himself cod and chips with plenty of salt and vinegar, and a can of coke to swill it all down with afterwards. He had a fresh plan. He would drive over to the sand dunes on the old castle road, eat his fish and chips on the beach and dump everything either in the bins or cast them out to sea. It was a way of mixing business with pleasure and he liked the idea.

8:30 pm.

Malcolm found a suitable parking spot amidst the dunes. With food in hands he crossed the road to the beach. For the time of year the weather remained mild and changeable and he watched the clouds scuttling past the moon as he ambled slowly across the sands consuming his fish and chips. He wondered why he had not done this before. It was peaceful out here, with the road deserted and no-one in sight for miles.
On finishing his fish and chips he placed the zips and little hooks inside the wrapping, screwed the newspaper up into a tight ball and deposited the lot in a council waste bin next to the parking area. He still had the woman's wristwatch to dispose of, but that was all. On finishing his drink he tried to poke the wristwatch through the hole in the top of the can. The hole was too small, so he simply tossed the empty can into the waste bin and returned the watch to a pocket. He tried to think of another way to dispose of it. The watch was an expensive item so he did not really want it to be found and handed into the police. In the end he decided to cast it off the cliffs somewhere out by the old castle.
On returning to the van and starting the engine, Malcolm looked in his mirror and observed the distant headlights of vehicle coming his way and heading for Castle Point. Patiently he waited, not wanting to pull out in front and do anything silly. This was the first car he had seen all night going along this road. Only when the bright headlights had passed and the red tail lights had come into view did he recognise the car. It was the blue estate car owned by Richard Davies. This just had to be Tracy Goodyear returning home after visiting the hospital.
Malcolm had no specific plan in mind, but was heading in that direction anyway, so he simply pulled out onto the road and began to follow the car up the hill to Castle Point. Tracy Goodyear, as expected, turned left down a side road almost opposite to the row of old cottages where Wendy Bartlett lived. On the corner stood a cul-de-sac sign indicating that the road was a dead end. Not wanting to be seen following the car deliberately, he carried on to swing his van into the Castle Trust car park adjacent to the old ruins. Here he pulled up and switched off the lights.
Still without a plan, Malcolm locked the van and set off along the path that followed the top of the cliffs. It was a dangerous thing to do at night, but thankfully the moon was out and apart from the odd occasion when a cloud scudded past, the light was adequate enough to see where he was treading. He moved on slowly, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks below. The path wound its way down a slight gradient and past the backs of three or four old cottages. It was possible that Tracy Goodyear lived in one of these. On the other hand there were more cottages on the opposite side of the road. Altogether there were about eight buildings in the cul-de-sac.
Malcolm decided to find out exactly which cottage was number three. But first he needed to get rid of the wristwatch. Standing almost on the edge of the cliffs, he removed the watch from his pocket and hurled it as far out to sea as he could throw. The waves below were crashing against the rocks, but he waited until he thought he heard a splash before returning to the path. He looked around. All the buildings in this part of the scattered hamlet were bungalows of one form or another. The one immediately next to him was surrounded by high private hedges on three sides with a gate leading from the back garden to the cliff top path. The dwelling appeared to be completely isolated with pathways on either side leading to the cul-de-sac. This seemed to be the quickest way through so he set off down the nearest narrow path to the road beyond.
As he neared the end of the path, Malcolm heard voices emerging from the front door of the bungalow to his right. Immediately he froze and ducked down low behind the private hedge. The voices were those of two woman, and by the sound and tone of the conversation, possibly a mother and her daughter. He started to listen halfway through a sentence.
"…need to swap the cars around tonight. Your dad wants to leave at six in the morning. It's a five hours drive to our Marion's and she's doing a big dinner for us, so we can't be late," said what sounded like the elder woman's voice.
Malcolm crouched down against the hedge and sidled up as close as possible. He would wait until the two woman were back in the house before going in search of number three.
"Okay mum, I'll back out, then I'll reverse in after you've pulled out," said the younger female.
Car doors opened and slammed, two engines started up and the glare of headlights burst over the top of hedge. Malcolm could visualise what was happening despite the hedge being in the way. The driveway must have been only capable of taking two cars, one parked behind the other. If the mother and father were leaving early in the morning, then obviously their car needed to be nearest the road.
The first car pulled out and went in the opposite direction to the path were Malcolm stooped. He saw nothing but headlights shining up the road. The second car followed this time to reverse into his view. He saw the glow of the red tail lights and pressed his body even further into the bushes. The two cars continued to manoeuvre until they were both back in the drive. Suddenly everything went dark again as headlights became extinguished. As car doors slammed and locks were turned the voices started up again.
"Are you sure you can't come to your sister's tomorrow?" asked the older woman.
There was a creaking and clanging of a gate being shut before an answer came.
"Sorry mum, not while Richard's still in hospital. Give Marion all my love and tell her we'll both be over to see her as soon as we can," replied the younger voice.
Suddenly Malcolm was all ears. This could very well be Tracy Goodyear speaking.
"Well don't forget to feed the cats, and remember to keep the doors locked. I don't like leaving you alone with that girl up the road still missing. You never know who's prowling about up here," replied the mother as she walked towards the bungalow. The front door opened and more light and moving shadows jumped the hedge.
"Mum, I'm twenty-one and quite capable of looking after myself," retorted the daughter.
That was the last he heard. The front door closed and darkness once more befell the path where he crouched.
Malcolm stood up and brushed the dead leaves from his coat and trousers. All he needed now was to confirm that this really was Tracy Goodyear's home. He set off to the end of the path and onto the road. There was no pavement just another high private hedge dividing front garden from public highway. Suddenly the boy smiled. On a brick pillar that supported the gate, and illuminated entirely by moonlight, there dimly glowed a big number three.
That was all he needed to know. Malcolm turned and set off up the road towards his van. Already he had formulated a fresh plan from the conversation he had just overheard. The mother and father were setting off at six o'clock tomorrow morning and leaving Tracy Goodyear alone in the house. It was still dark at that time and did not get light until half past seven. That gave him a one and a half hours time slot in which to work.
Malcolm was still working on all the details to his fresh plan as he drove back to the Amusement Park.
Tomorrow was going to be yet another very busy day.

End of Chapter Eight