The Grave.

The Caravan Park was deserted, closed down for ‘essential maintenance’ according to the sign outside the warden’s caravan. His breath plumed in the still cold air as he unlocked the chain barring the entrance road and reversed his car out. The warden’s van was locked, curtains drawn as a deterrent to casual visitors, but Marcus had no fear of being disturbed. The warden’s body was buried in deep undergrowth at the base of the cliff and the man would not be missed until the site re-opened in six weeks time.

The Posche had served its purpose and would now be abandoned. Granby Street, with the keys on show in the ignition, was the best way to guarantee its permanent removal. A prestige motor like this would be in a lock-up garage within the hour, ready to be re-sprayed, fitted with new plates and documents and shipped out to a new home in Eastern Europe. The new under the counter money was all coming from Russia, Romania and the former Soviet Union satellite states these days. The new consumers wanted only the best and were happy to pay top prices for it.

It had been necessary to use a flashy car, as the girl would not have been so easy to impress if he’d arrived in a family saloon, but his replacement vehicle would be very different. He invariably chose a nothing car, such as a Ford Focus. Decent engine, reliable, but best of all, it would never attract attention. Even the colour would be nothing special. Silver was the most popular colour at present. Safety in numbers.

He didn’t believe in taking chances.

Ever.

Only half a dozen or so more deaths and this phase of his work would be over. The method he’d chosen would allow him to complete the task with a minimum of risk. This was vital; his planning always placed avoidance of danger at the very top of the list. This excessive caution was not rooted in fear. Self-interest demanded that he be free. He had been confined like an animal, for many years, would take any measure necessary to avoid a repetition.

Despite him having been officially pronounced dead, someone was actively seeking him out. A hacker. A very good one. A minor concern at this stage, but action would have to be taken eventually. The identity of the unknown snooper would soon be known and discouragement would then become necessary. One decision had already been made: the means would be permanent and very painful indeed.

The body had stiffened since his last visit but was just beginning to become pliable again as the effects of rigor wore off. He removed the hands and head, grunting with the effort it took in such cramped conditions, and placed them in a gunny sack for disposal elsewhere. Working quickly in the early morning chill he lowered the girl’s body into the hole and shovelled earth back, tamping it down firmly with the flat of the spade. When he finished, the grave site looked exactly like the rest of the freshly turned vegetable plot. He collected the sack and locked the caravan door, checking the windows and throwing the keys into the dense undergrowth. He wouldn’t be back again.

He drove away from the site, now chained and locked once more, savouring the many pleasures of a cool crisp morning. A shy, breathy wind ruffled the treetops as the sun rose in the eastern sky, pink and violet streaks tipping the distant hills. He swerved slightly as a small rodent scuttled from the hedgerow and smiled broadly at the sound of tiny bones crunching beneath the fat tyres of the Porsche.

Sometimes life was just perfect.