52 Murders

In previous chapters we’ve covered the preparation, assembly and control of your Killbot. In this section, we’ll explore the basic principles of programming and write a simple control script. Programming your Killbot has a number of advantages over manual control, as it allows the Killbot to operate to peak efficiency, leaving you free to deal with other tasks.

If you’ve never used a programming language before, there’s no need to panic - it’s really quite simple. Killbot uses a customised programming language called Murderscript. This is what’s known as a “high-level” language, designed to be easily read and understood by even novice programmers. (Advanced programmers can bypass Murderscript and access the core instruction set directly by using the low-level “M++” language. This is covered in the Advanced Technical Manual). Even if you have some programming experience, it’s a good idea to run through the tutorial to familiarise yourself with the syntax of Murderscript. The following is a basic program that will tell Killbot to kill twelve tall men. The full program looks like this: 

// First Killbot Program
//  
// Preparation Phase

new.spree(“tall-men”) {
flush.emotion;
exclude.operator;
total.bodycount = 12;
}

define.range() {
type.radial;
distance(500);
}

define.victim(“beanpole”){

var.beanpole(“height”, int);
var.beanpole(“male”, bool);
}
// Killing Cycle

travel.range();

scan.target {
IF height >= 190 AND male = true THEN target=beanpole;
ELSE ignore;
}

define.method(decap);

execute.beanpole (bodycount++);

on total.bodycount return;

If this all looks complicated - don’t worry. We’ll go through it line-by-line so you can see exactly what each of these commands mean in real terms.

The first stage of the program is the “preparation phase” where various parameters are established before Killbot goes into action. First off, we need to define the scope of our murder. 

new.spree(“tall-men”) {
flush.emotion;
exclude.operator;
total.bodycount=12;
}

This defines a new .spree with the name “tall-men”. If we were just murdering one person, we would use the .murder type, but any murder with more than one victim is considered a .spree. It’s good practice to name your subroutines, as it will allow you to recall them at a later date. If, for example, at a future date you wanted to program Killbot to eliminate tall men and fat women, you would be able to call the “tall-men” .spree from memory, without having to retype the instructions. 

As we define the .spree, we also set a few parameters for the program. We use flush.emotion to bypass Killbot’s moral compass and to discriminate purely on the criteria defined within the program. Also, we exclude.operator to make sure that the programmer and operator of the killbot (i.e. you) is not considered a target for Killbot. (!! THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT STEP - DO NOT OMIT THIS LINE OF CODE, EVEN IF YOU DO NOT MEET THE PARAMETERS LISTED WITHIN THE PROGRAM!! Programmers often test lines of code as they go and omitting the exclude.operator function may result in your death.)

Finally, we will specify a total.bodycount, which in this case is 12 victims. Sprees can have many different parameters that account for success or failure and these are covered in more detail in subsequent chapters. For the moment, though, we’ll stick with a simple parameter that gives us a definite state of completion.

The next step is to define how far and in what manner Killbot should travel in order to find victims. We do this by defining a range of 500 metres from the operating station, going out in a radial direction. 

define.range() {
type.radial;
distance(500);
}

Unless we define a range, Killbot will continue travelling indefinitely. While this dogged determination is admirable, it’s a good idea to keep Killbot on a leash until you’re more confident in your programming abilities. By keeping Killbot close to home, you can monitor its progress and tweak your programs until they produce the exact results you want. 

The final phase of the preparatory stage is defining a .victim. Using Murderscript, we are able to define a set of parameters that will enable Killbot to find victims based on any number of parameters. In this example, we are intending to kill tall men, so we first ascribe them the victim name “beanpole” and then define a few parameters that will enable Killbot to discriminate them from other people. Murderscript has a number of built-in parameters you can call on in order to identify Killbot victims. In this example, we are using “height”, which is an integer (whole number) value and “male” which is a boolean (true or false) value.

define.victim(“beanpole”){
var.beanpole(“height”,int);
var.beanpole(“male”,bool);
}

This completes the first stage of the program and Killbot now has enough parameters to work with. If you wanted, you could add further conditions to the “beanpole” victim type, but for the moment, these two parameters will suffice.

With the parameters set, we now enter the main program loop. This is the basic operating instructions for Killbot “in the field”. First, we tell Killbot to start moving and looking for targets. We do this by using the travel command and tying it to the range we set earlier. 

travel.range();

Killbot automatically searches its surroundings for new potential targets and when it finds one the scan mode is automatically triggered. It’s at this point that we need to compare the data of the current target with the parameters we have already defined for our intended victim. This is done by a IF… THEN… ELSE comparison, which gives Killbot a series of parameters to compare the currently scanned object to. 

scan.target {
IF height >= 190 AND male = true THEN target=beanpole;
ELSE ignore;
}

In this case, we state that the scanned object’s height must be greater than or equal to 190cm (Killbot defaults to metric measurements) and must be male (meeting the male=true condition). IF these conditions are met THEN the target is given the label “beanpole” and if it doesn’t meet these requirements, it’s something ELSE and (in this case, at least) it can be ignored. As time goes on, you will learn how multiple IF… THEN… ELSE arguments can discern different kinds of targets and foster a modular approach to Killbot’s murders. 

As well as acquiring targets, Killbot also needs to know the best manner in which to  dispose of the target. This can vary depending on the exact configuration of your Killbot, but assuming a basic configuration that is accessible to all models, we will select a parameter appropriate to the target. Given that we are selecting targets for their height, decapitation seems appropriate. We choose this by defining the method of death, like so:

define.method(decap);

So far we have defined Killbot’s range of travel, given it parameters for selecting targets and even chosen the method by which it will murder but as yet we have not given it the command to kill. Without the following command, Killbot will simply store data on the targets it scans. By adding an execute command, we ensure that Killbot fulfils its primary purpose and kills the target at hand.

execute.beanpole (bodycount++);

You’ll notice that as well as the execute command, there’s an additional rider on the command.The use of “++” tells Killbot to increase the value of bodycount by 1. The next line of the program compares the current value of bodycount to its projected total. 

on total.bodycount return;

If the values are equal, the command tells Killbot to return to its operator. Alternatively, we could tell it to explode or commit seppuku, but given that this is our first program it’s probably best to leave those options to one side. 

Hopefully this brief example has given you a taste of how much can be accomplished by programming your Killbot for autonomous destruction. In the following chapters, you’ll learn more about how Killbot can acquire, discriminate and destroy targets based upon any number of parameters. 

Programming Exercise

Write a program that will kill the following:

• 8 targets
• All female
• Under 140 cm in height
• Within 800 metres of the operator

i can hear them ticking. all of them. at first i thought it was just mr green next door, but then i heard it in the milkman and the man who came to read the meter. i left the house to get away from them, but everyone is ticking just under the surface. what worries me more is the slight echo i hear under the skin. it doesn’t sound soft and pliant like skin should. no. it’s bright and hard like metal and i don’t know what to think, because i don’t know what it says about what’s behind their faces. i thought i could get away, but now i’ve wandered around so much that i don’t know how to get home. i’ve been standing at this bus stop for a while now, but whenever a bus comes, the numbers change and i can’t keep track of them any more. still, i think the bus stop is a good place to be. even though there are only two walls, it’s safer than being in the middle of the street and as long as i keep touching the advertising hoarding, i will be safe.

a fat woman with shopping bags comes and sits on the little red bench in the bus stop. i push back against the adverting hoarding to give her as much room as possible. she pretends not to notice and makes out like she’s looking out into the road. i keep my back pressed against the shelter. i watch her with my peripheral vision and i listen to her tick.

eventually, she takes a packet of biscuits out of her shopping bag, opens it and eats the biscuits one-by-one. she’s as regular as a metronome and the crunching of the biscuits is in sync with the clicking behind her face. the tick-tick-tick-munch is only broken when my stomach growls with hunger. i haven’t eaten in a long time. the woman stops offers me the packet and i almost take one because i’m so hungry, but then i look at her face and i see that the right side has swung outwards from the hinge running down her face. there’s a catch just below her ear and it must have opened by accident. from where i’m sitting i can’t see what’s inside her head, but i reach out to push her face back into its proper position. the fat woman flinches and draws away from me, taking her biscuits with her. i try to tell her that i was only trying to help, but her clicking gets faster and more angry, drowning out my attempts to explain. in the confusion my hand gets separated from the advertising hoarding and my curtain of safety disappears. i run away. i don’t know what else to do.

coloured fog has descended from the sky, making it impossible to see specific details in the things around me. i have to navigate by tones, avoiding the dark purple and red areas and heading towards the blue and yellow safe places. i never seem to get there, even after hours of walking, so i have to rest in a neutral grey zone. the clicking here isn’t too bad. it’s not as intense or frightening as mr green or the fat woman. 

i don’t know this place. there are shops and people, but the fog makes it difficult to tell exactly where i am. it could be the high street near my house or it could be another place entirely. it all looks so familiar and so different, i don’t know what to do. i’m drawn to the light of a shop that sells televisions. the little people in the screens are much clearer than those walking around me and the fact that they’re behyind glass means i can’t hear them clicking. the man on the television reads the news and i’m happy just to watch for a while, but then he stops and looks straight at me. i9 freeze in place and realise i have to count to see how long this last for. 

one.

two.

three.

four.

five.

six. 

six.six. 

sixsixsixsixsixix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix turns to clicks and i realise that he’s trying to wind me up, trying to start a mechanism inside of me. i turn away from the screen and when i do, i see the blank man standing next to me. he doesn’t have a face - just a blank sheet of flesh where his features would be. he seems to be trying to say something, but i don’t know what it is because he doesn’t have a mouth. he cocks his head to one side like a dog trying to understand and when he does, the hinge in the middle of his face creaks open and i can finally see the mechanism underneath - a clockwork instrument of flesh and bone. i see the white ivory cogs turning in tiny increments, connected by bands of cartilage and sinuous pulleys that push and pull the machinery inside his skull. small puffs of steam rise as the mechanism starts to work faster and faster and i can tell that something inside the blank man’s head is going seriously wrong. i can see the wheels starting to spin and the rotors sparking as they are pushed to capacity and beyond. the tiny bellows fuelling the furnace wheeze and cough and the cogs begin to fracture. the ticking gets faster and faster and i realise there’s only one thing that i can do to stop everything from going out of control. it’s up to me to fix it. that’s why i brought the screwdriver out with me. 

i take the tool from my pocket and jam it into the blank man’s head. there’s resistance as i force the crosshead into the machinery behind his blank face, but i can’t stop now. i continue digging through the machinery, prying away stanchions and crossbeams in order to get to the key components within. for the first time in a long time, the clicking stops. but as the clock winds down, a new sound replaces it - a shrill ultrasonic scream that hurts my ears. i don’t know if it’s better or worse, but it’s something new after the endless days of tick-tick-tick.

arms come out of the fog and wrestle me away from the blank man, pulling the wet screwdriver from my hand and forcing me to the ground. the shrill sound stops and there’s a low chatter of static that may or may not be words. even though i can’t see the television man, i feel certain that he’s smiling at me. it doesn’t matter. i think i’ve finally fixed it. tears of gratitude start flowing down my cheeks as the fog around me starts to flash blue. tall figures put me in handcuffs and say things i don’t understand. beneath their words, i hear their real language and i start to cry anew, because i realise that this is how it’s always going to be.

second by second. 

moment by moment.

tick.

tick.

tick.

Freddie Jacobs didn’t know what Mr Perskine looked like, but he recognised him all the same. There was no mistaking a buyer, particularly the wet, pliant sort. They were Freddie’s favourite kind. He smiled to himself as he took a last drag off his fag, flicked it out of the window and sprayed some deodoriser to mask the smell. When the scent of Alpine Forest had spread through the car’s interior, he switched on the engine and drove over to pick up Perskine.

It was a horrible day, no mistake about it. The rain had come late last night and didn’t show any signs of abating. There were reports of floods in the next county, but that wasn’t about to stop Freddie from continuing with business as usual. 

“Mr Perskine?” he said to the bedraggled man standing in the rain and when he nodded, Freddie opened the passenger door and told him to get in.

Perskine clambered into the car awkwardly, dripping all over the upholstery. Freddie had just had it valeted.

“Don’t worry about the leather,” Freddie said, “just get yourself inside.”

Perskine used several combinations of the words “thanks”, “sorry” and “urgh” to get across what an awkward time he was having. Once he had finally settled, he turned to look at Freddie, who took control of the the conversation.

“Freddie Jacobs,” he said, sticking out his hand, “it’s good to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr Perskine.” 

“You too, Mr Jacobs.”

“Call me Freddie.”

Mr Perskine didn’t offer his first name. That didn’t bother Freddie. The customer was always right, even when he was uptight. 

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Freddie said. “The trains on that little line can be a bit erratic.”

“Is that so?” Perskine said. Freddie realised that he was undermining the transport links of the property he was trying to sell and backtracked smoothly.

“Can be,” he conceded, “but the property we’re going to is actually closer to Crowborough, which has the proper mainline service to Hastings.”

“Then why did I have to come here?”

The atmosphere in the car turned chilly. Freddie turned up the heater.

“Ah, well, I had other meetings in the area. Hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

“No,” Perskine said. “Not too much.”

Freddie realised that he had somewhat misread Perskine. While he was a bit of a cold fish, he wasn’t as wet as he first appeared and that business was a better option than banter.

“Seen many other properties in the area, Mr Perskine?”

“A few. Mostly around Mayfield, Rotherfield, some of the villages around that way.”

“Seen much you like?”

Perskine shrugged his shoulders. “OK, I suppose. A lot of new builds.”

“Not your sort of thing?”

“Not at the prices they’re asking, no.”

“And who’s been showing you them?”

“Peterson & Lowe. You know them?”

“Aha. Yes, I know them alright,” Freddie chuckled.

“Something funny?”

“Oh, no. Peterson and Lowe are a good company. Very successful, do a lot of business.”

“But?”

Freddie sucked his teeth. “Not exactly known for the personal touch.”

Perskine’s eyes narrowed. “No… I suppose not. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Look, I’m not knocking them,” Freddie said. “They’re a big firm. Six offices, lots of agents, big contracts. All well and good, but sometimes the customer gets left behind in the shuffle, you know what I mean? They’ve got all these agents trying so hard to screw each other out of commission that sometimes they forget that people have to live in the places they’re selling. It’s one way of doing business, I suppose, but I’ve been in this game for twenty years and I’ll tell you something that most agents have either forgotten or never knew.”

“What’s that?”

“The property business is the people business.” 

Freddie paused a moment to let his great truth sink in, before then going on to expand on it. 

“Sure, we deal in bricks and mortar, but it’s about people. It’s about their homes, their businesses, their lives. Our homes and our places of business are where most of our time is spent. The connection you feel with a place doesn’t just boil down to facts and figures. It comes from here-” he took one hand off the wheel and touched the centre of his chest. “-you know?”

“Yes. I do, actually.”

“You trying that to the kids Waterson & Lowe have got working for ‘em and they won’t know what you’re talking about.”

Perskine nodded, but didn’t say anything and the two men sat quietly for a while. Freddie glanced over at Perskine and saw that he was playing with his wedding ring. 

“You married?” Freddie asked, nodding at the gold band on Perskine’s finger.

“Oh. Um… yes.”

That ‘um’ told Freddie a lot.

“She’s not coming with you to look at houses?”

“She’s in the States at the moment. Working. You know how it is…”

Freddie nodded. He suspected there was some doubt as to whether the wife was coming back at all. From Perskine’s agitated state, Freddie guessed that he himself wasn’t sure of this fact and perhaps was banking on a new house and a fresh start to seal the deal. Perskine’s battered shoes and tatty briefcase told Freddie that money was tight, but a woman who flies to the states for business probably did alright for herself. People could be old fashioned, though - even career women who expected their husband to be the main breadwinner, even though he had no hope of living up her overachieving standards. Freddie had seen it all before, but said nothing. Instead, he just said: “You must miss her.”

Perskine looked surprised and said that he did. Very much. 

Conversation fell away again and as the A-road disappeared beneath the tyres of the Vauxhall Insignia. Perskine didn’t want to talk and Freddie was trying to ignore a feeling in his gut. Eventually, he could disregard it no longer and broke the silence.

“Can I be straight with you, Mr Perskine?”

“Um… Yes. Of course.”

“The house we’re going to look at probably isn’t for you. I mean, it’s nice enough, but it’s not going to be much different from anything Waterson & Lowe would show you. It might have the features you’re looking for  - two bed, one bath, blah blah blah - but it’s just a box on a street full of other boxes that all look the same. Fine if you like that sort of thing, but I get the impression that you’re after somewhere a little different. Somewhere that’s going to feel special. Somewhere that your wife will want to come home to. Am I right?”

Perskine looked at Freddie curiously, swallowed and then said: “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I want to take you somewhere else. It’s a bit out of the way, but it’s a one-of-a-kind property that’s going for an absolute song. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I suspect it might be yours and if you’re willing to indulge me, I think you’ll find it’s worth your while.”

“Ok…” Perskine said, slightly suspiciously.

“If you don’t like it, we’ll go on to the terrace in Furness Road, but for the sake of half an hour, I really think you should take a look. All right?”

“OK,” Perskine said. “Let’s do it.”

“There’s just one thing I need to know beforehand,” Freddie said, “and it’s going to sound a little bit peculiar, but I ask you to bear with me and just be honest.”

“Sure.”

“Are you superstitious?”

Perskine’s eyes widened with surprise. “Not as a rule, no.”

“What about your wife? Would you say she’s given to that sort of thing?”

Perskine snorted and said: “She’s American”, as if that was all that needed to be said. 

“OK then,” Freddie said as he flicked his indicators to change lanes. “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”

“What does that mean, about being superstitious?” Perskine asked.

“I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Freddie said, “I won’t leave anything out. But after you’ve seen the property, OK?”

Perskine considered for a moment and then shrugged and said: “Fair enough.”

Pine Barrow didn’t so much stand on top of the hill as it did crouch. The farmhouse squatted low, as if ready to pounce on anything that dared to cross its path. Not much did, however, as the house was some 500 yards from the road, with only a jutted driveway connecting it to the thoroughfare. 

“That’s it?” Perskine said quietly as the car approached.

“That’s it,” Freddie said, glancing at his client and seeing that he was already taken with the place. Sometimes you needed to help them along, talk them up and point out the reasons they and the house were right for each other. Other times, though, you just needed to stand quietly by while they got acquainted. Pine Barrow wasn’t like other properties, but they could go through that later. For the moment, Freddie was content just to quietly by while Perskine fell in love with the place.

The car crunched its way along the surface of the rough driveway. It sagged and bobbed on the pitted path, but Perskine’s eyes never left the house. Once the car was parked, the two of them sat there for a moment. 

“You want to have a look?” Freddie asked.

Perskine just nodded, but Freddie knew that this wasn’t due to taciturnity. He was smitten.

Strictly speaking, Pine Barrow was a farmhouse, although it hadn’t served as one for sixty years. The surrounding fields had been absorbed by a neighbouring farm, then turned over to the National Grid and other anonymous concerns. The house still stood, however, and had been modified and adapted by each of its subsequent owners, with various extensions and enhancements extruded out from its core. At the centre of it all was a tough stone structure, impervious to the elements. So it had to be, for as much as its position on top of the hill afforded Pine Barrow stunning views, it also left it exposed to the elements. Rain, wind and hail lashed against it constantly and such barrages left no trees to offer cover in winter or shade in the summer. Still, the enduring strength of the building gave it character. While the surface was battered, its heart remained strong and the weathered appearance gave it character. Freddie let Perskine admire the front while he got busy trying to find the right key. 

The back door led straight into the kitchen, which despite being stripped of most of its features still had enough of them to make a good impression. Perskine’s eyes went straight to the Aga.

“Yeah,” Freddie said, “that’s worth about three grand in and of itself. Heats the kitchen, too. I’ve never used one myself - more of a microwave man - but people tell me nothing but good things about them.”

Perskine nodded, but said nothing. Freddie let him find his own way through the house, trailing him at a discreet distance and making comments only when they seemed necessary.

“Fireplace works,” he said as they went through to the living room. “From what I’m told, between that and the Aga, you won’t go cold downstairs. Upstairs, well, you can put electric heaters in the bedrooms and there’s an electric bar in the bathroom.”

Again, Perskine nodded and allowed himself to be led upstairs. In each of the bedrooms, he looked in wonder at both the rooms themselves and the views out of the windows. All three bedrooms were all of a good size and he started to see himself making a future in Pine Barrow. Both he and his wife could have an office of their own and fulfil their long held dream of working from home. The box room would make a perfect walk-in closet for her clothes and even though the bathroom was small, there was a huge bathtub in there. Big enough for two.

When Perskine had seen enough, Freddie took him back down to the front room and asked him what he thought.

“It’s… amazing,” Perskine said. “It’s really, really… amazing.” He shook his head. “But there’s no way I can afford it. I would love to live here, but it’s got to be five times the price of what I’m looking for.” 

“You’ll be surprised,” Freddie said and mentioned a figure that made Perskine’s jaw drop.

“That can’t be right, can it?” Perskine said, agog. “That’s like giving it away.”

“But nobody wants it.” Freddie said.

“You asked me if I was superstitious,” Perskine said. “Is it… haunted?”

“No,” Freddie said and they both shared a laugh at the notion.

“Not to my knowledge,” Freddie continued, “and I’ve lived around here all my life. I don’t believe in that sort of thing, but there’s plenty that do and one of them would have told me by now. It’s not haunted, but nobody’s lived here for over ten years.”

“Why not?”

“It used to belong to John and Freida Cooper.”

It was clear that Perskine didn’t recognise the names.

“They killed thirteen people in this house,” Freddie said. “Chopped them up and buried the pieces in the ground.”

That made Perskine’s eyes widen.

“Wow,” he said. “Here?”

“Yeah.”

Freddie watched as Perskine looked around the house, the new information altering everything he thought he knew about the property. 

“Amazing,” Perskine murmured. He turned back to Freddie. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know a lot,” Freddie said with a sigh, “but from what I can recall, it was mostly hitch-hikers, or kids that had run away from home. They would offer them a place to stay for the night, or a hot meal and then… they would do away with them.”

“‘Do away with them’?” Perskine insisted. “How do you mean, exactly?”

Freddie sighed. “I don’t know all the details, but from what I recall it was mainly done with an axe from the woodshed. Frieda would make them dinner and she would flirt with them and then John would split their head open with an axe. There used to be a chest freezer in the kitchen. They would put the bodies in there for a while, then bury them in the cellar.”

“There’s a cellar?” Perskine asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

Freddie looked at Perskine, as if considering whether he could refuse. Eventually, he relented.

“If you must.”

After the right key had been found, Freddie opened the cellar door and handed a large Duracell torch to Perskine, who switched it on and gingerly crept into the cold, dark basement. Freddie stayed by the door, where it was light. After a few minutes of wandering around and shining the torch here and there, Perskine turned back to Freddie. 

“How were they caught?”

“I think they got careless,” Freddie said with a shrug. “They’d been doing it so long, they probably thought they could go on forever. Living here, you know, away from people, they must have got further and further away from reality. They just got sloppy, by all accounts.”

“Still…” Perskine muttered. “Thirteen people…”

“Yeah.”

“And now no-one wants to live here?” Perskine said, running the torch beam across the cold dirt floor of the cellar. 

“Live here? No. People visit from time to time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Freddie sighed, seemingly disappointed that he was forced into this further revelation. “You know the type - people who get off on murder and stuff. You don’t get ‘em so much any more, but a few years ago, when the case was in the papers, they were up here pretty regular. I mean, I doubt you’d get any now, if that’s a worry…”

“And, what, they just wanted to look around?”

“Some. Others wanted… well, there were a couple of teenagers who came here one night and… they said it was one of them suicide pact things. Both of them took pills and never woke up.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. And there was the homeless guy who broke in. Junkie, you know. Overdosed in the front room.”

“Blimey. And that’s why people don’t want to live here?”

“I suppose. It’s not like people think it’s haunted; it’s just that they know so many people died here. Not just with John and Frieda, but after that and all.”

“Was that all of them - the kids and the junkie?”

“No. There were a few more hitchhikers. They came here and never left. Nobody ever found the bodies. I think that when people come here, they sort of sense all the death in the air. That’s why most people don’t like it.”

“Huh,” Perskine said, taking one last look at the floor and ruminating on the secrets it held. “Well, that sort of thing doesn’t bother me. To be honest, I find it all quite fascinating. Has anyone ever written a book about it, because-?” 

Perskine stopped mid-sentence as a thought suddenly struck him. 

“But if they never found the bodies, how-?”

He turned to Freddie, who was standing in the doorway and watching Perskine very, very closely. 

“Um… I think I’ve seen enough now,” Perskine said. “Can we go back upstairs?”

Freddie didn’t move. He just smiled. 

“Really,” Perskine said. “I’d like to get out of here. Now.”

Freddie kept smiling.

He was, after all, in the people business.