The Witching Hour Killer

EIGHT - THOMAS

Thursday 28th October, PM

Driving up towards the council estate, Dani and I looked at each other worryingly before pulling up on the kerb.
A group of hooded teenagers stared at us as we climbed out of the car as if we were aliens from another dimension. My skin prickled at the unwanted attention as I began to walk towards the tall bricked tower.

"Oi oi it's the pigs." One of them sneered and the others erupted in laughter.

"You've got no fucking business here, yeah? We ain't doing nuffink" another spat at the floor next to us.

"Calm down, boys. I'm not here for you." I rolled my eyes and proceeded towards the entrance. I heard a few of them scoff behind me, but they were not on my radar. That place was reserved for Mr Smith. The skeleton with a face.

At the doorway, I saw a woman struggling with a pushchair trying to manoeuvre it around the tiny corridor as another child pulled at her arm and screamed in dismay. She looked up at me and Dani, then her eyes darted straight to the floor as if she had been caught red-handed and she yanked her child's arm towards the door. Away from us.

This is the part of the country that people try their best to hide. The poor, rundown holes in the city that the government pretends not to know about when they look at the public spending pot. These communities are brandished in bad names, told that they are the reason that the country has "gone to shit" when in reality, they are victims of the system. No wonder they look at us like aliens or act as if we are here to kidnap their children or take away their homes. Police officers, social services, bailiffs... we all turn up here.
It is a harrowing thought.

Our feet carried us up the three flights of stairs until we were at the level we needed. My entire body buzzed in anticipation when we reached the door to Apartment 34.
The chipped wooden door showed no signs of inhabitants with letters shoved between the gap, it wasn't looking promising.
Regardless, we cleared our throats and delivered a loud knock.

"Met police, open up." Dani had changed her vocals to a deeper, authoritative yell and straightened her shoulders ready for confrontation.
But there was no response from within.
With another hard knock from Dani's fist, the door clicked open under her weight.
I jumped back slightly, thankful of the Kevlar that protected my chest. If John Smith was in here, things could turn dark very quickly.
Dani raised her arm warily and pushed the door open further as a dark hallway greeted us.

"Hello? Is anyone home? We have a few questions regarding an ongoing investigation." Her voice grew louder as we heard  neighbouring doors crack open to investigate the commotion.
I gestured for us to proceed through the threshold and took one step inside the dwelling, readying myself for what could come next. 

The apartment entrance was dingy, with paper peeling and bubbling from the damp-ridden walls. Whoever lived here clearly didn't care too much about the appearance or upkeep of the residence. But that was a drop in the bucket to what welcomed us into the living room.
Every part of the room was littered in papers, books and clutter. The adjoining kitchen was barely visible through piles of unwashed dishes and cutlery.
I approached what appeared to be the sink as a leaky tap dripped brown liquid into the mouldy basin, looking for evidence of recent use.

"What a dive." Dani covered her mouth in the crease of her arm and attempted to search the coffee table.
She jumped back immediately, startling me and I turned to face her when I saw what had caused the panic.
The body of an animal with matted fur laid lifeless under the table buried in newspapers. Walking over to get a closer look, I saw that it was an extremely slender figure of a cat, clearly perished from starvation, it's eyes wide open with flies swarming the remains.