As I stood outside the Sergeant's office, my knuckles rapped sharply against the closed door, a mix of determination and nerves pulsing through me. I had left Sarah behind at Mrs. Pafistis' place, entrusting her to complete the interview. Sharon's revelation about Luke Smith had provided the critical lead I needed, and my focus had shifted entirely to obtaining a warrant for his arrest.

Impatience gnawed at me as I waited for a response from inside the office. What the hell is taking him so long? The question echoed in my mind, my frustration mounting with each passing second. I knocked again, harder this time, the sound echoing through the hallway.

Unable to contain my urgency any longer, I turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the Sergeant's office unannounced. The scene that greeted me was one of casual authority: the Sergeant leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, a picture of relaxed command.

"I'll call you back later to confirm when I'm ready," I overheard him say into the phone, his tone nonchalant. He hung up the phone and looked up at me, his large size-twelve feet still resting comfortably atop each other on the desk.

"Karl, why are you here?" Sergeant Claiborne asked coldly. It was clear that he was not impressed by the intrusion, but I didn't care. There were, I felt, more important matters to be dealt with. Claiborne's dating service could wait. Every week it was a different woman. I knew about it. Everybody at the station knew about it! And if they didn't, well, if they were that unobservant, I didn't think they deserved to be in the police force at all.

"I'd like permission to obtain a warrant for the arrest of Luke Smith," I declared, cutting straight to the chase. My voice was firm, reflecting the seriousness of my request.

"On what grounds?" Sergeant Claiborne's question was expected, but I was prepared.

"Four counts of murder," I responded, holding his gaze. My confidence didn't waver, even under his scrutinising look.

"Four?" The Sergeant raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"Yes, Sir," I affirmed. "Luke's partner Jamie Greyson, Jamie's nephew Kain Jeffries, and acquaintances Nial Triffett and Adrian Pafistis."

The Sergeant's skepticism was evident in his response. "Acquaintances? Come on, Karl. You're going to have to do a bit better than that."

I understood his skepticism; the connections weren't typical or straightforward. "We know that Luke made contact with Nial and Adrian, posing as a client and asking to meet up to discuss potential work," I explained, trying to make the connections as clear as possible. "Besides that, I'm not sure what other connection they have," I admitted, my honesty reflecting the gaps in our understanding of the case. Aside from the fact that Luke is a fucking psychopath.

Standing before Sergeant Claiborne, I felt the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on me. His skepticism was palpable, and his response was cutting. "Not sure? You think a judge is going to believe 'not sure'?" he questioned with a tone of disparagement.

I tried to defend my position, clutching at the straws of evidence we had. "Nial's phone records show that Luke was the last person he spoke to before he disappeared. We also have footage of Luke making a considerable withdrawal at an ATM from Jamie's bank account," I stated, my voice firm despite the rising doubt.

"A phone call and an ATM withdrawal," the Sergeant echoed my words, his tone unimpressed. "Not exactly arrestable crimes. Has Jamie's bank card been reported missing or stolen?"

His question stopped me in my tracks. I hesitated, realising the gaps in our evidence. "Well, no. But–" I began, only to be cut off.

"No buts, Karl. You know that. If you don't have solid evidence pointing to a crime, then I have no other choice but to deny your request for an arrest warrant."

I felt a sense of desperation creeping in. "Look, I need a search warrant," I said, almost pleading.

"What for?" Sergeant Claiborne asked, his impatience evident.

"Luke Smith's house," I argued, trying to maintain my resolve.

"And what do you expect to find?" he pressed further.

I was at a loss for words. What do I expect to find? The question echoed in my mind. All I could envision was the chaos I had created myself – the torn garbage bags and the broken window. "I'm not sure," I admitted, my voice trailing off.

Sergeant Claiborne's gaze bore into me, a mix of pity and disappointment in his eyes. "I think you've answered your request yourself then, haven't you?" he concluded. "Karl, I find your arguments inconclusive and unconvincing, and your evidence is circumstantial at best. Your request is denied, on both grounds."

Defeated and frustrated, I turned to leave the office, my emotions clear on my face.

"Karl," Sergeant called after me, his tone shifting to one of encouragement mixed with caution. "Find Luke, but just don't touch him," he urged.

Storming out of the office, I slammed the door behind me. Overwhelmed with frustration and anger, I hastily sent a text to Detective Lahey.

15:09 Karl: Claiborne has refused request to obtain either an arrest warrant or search warrant. Glen is on his way to collect you. KJ.

I was back to square one, but I wasn't going to give up. Luke Smith was still out there, and I knew I had to find him, even if it meant working within the constraints set by the Sergeant. The case was far from over, and I was determined to see it through, no matter the obstacles.

Knowing that Sarah would be more than a little pissed at me for leaving her behind again, I made sure that I left the station before she arrived back. But I had to. My plan for the evening was clear: to stake out Luke's house, to catch him in a criminal act that would justify an immediate arrest. This mission felt personal, a silent vow to bring Luke Smith to justice.

After my usual evening routine and a grateful acceptance of a fresh towel from Jargus, I dressed in the darkest clothes I could find. I filled Jargus' bowl with a few extra dog biscuits as a small apology for leaving him alone, yet again.

The mood that enveloped me was dark and brooding. Dusk was still painting the sky as I parked my car by the river Derwent. I decided to walk up the steep Berriedale Road, thinking it less conspicuous than driving up to Luke's house. The walk was more exhausting than I had anticipated. Finding a spot among the bushes across the road, I settled down to watch.

The discomfort of my position, the constant shifting every two minutes, began to grate on me. Frustration and impatience bubbled inside as I contemplated abandoning my post and jogging back to the car. But every time I looked up at the house, my resolve hardened.

Visions of what Luke might be doing haunted me – the imagined sight of Gladys' body mutilated and displayed grotesquely in the window fuelled my anger and resolve. The small face peering out from the living room blinds only added to the eerie atmosphere. My thoughts were consumed by the atrocities I believed Luke capable of. He was a monster in my eyes, a threat that needed to be neutralised.

Under the shroud of night, I felt a blend of stealth and foolishness as I checked for any oncoming traffic before darting across the road. Reaching the head-high wooden fence encircling Luke's property, I stood on tiptoe, peering over the top with a focused gaze. The backyard was still, shrouded in darkness with no sign of movement. The house, too, was quiet, no shadows or lights betraying any presence.

A sense of self-doubt crept in. Is there really any need for this clandestine approach? Despite this, I couldn’t shake off the anger boiling inside me or the thrill of the sneaky operation I had embarked on. I continued my stealthy exploration, skirting along each side of the fence until I reached the top of the driveway.

Standing at Luke's front door, I contemplated knocking. My hand hovered in the air, heart pounding with anticipation. But my past experiences here had taught me that knocking was futile. I needed a different approach, something more direct.

With a sense of trepidation, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the name that made my heart skip a beat: Jamie Greyson. It had been years since I last dialled this number, and I wasn’t even sure if it was still active. My memories of Jamie, particularly the harrowing one where I had left him to drown, flooded back, intensifying my apprehension.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady my nerves. With a sense of inevitability, my finger pressed the call button, but I couldn’t bring myself to put the phone to my ear. I wasn’t ready to confront the voice of the man I had abandoned all those years ago. Instead, I held the phone before me, staring at the screen, waiting, anticipating. The silence around me was oppressive, filled with the echoes of the past and the weight of the present moment. I stood there, outside Luke’s house, torn between the past and the present, caught in a web of emotions and duty.

The faint, yet unmistakable sound of a phone ringing inside the house caught my attention. It was a surreal moment; my call to Jamie's phone was echoing from within the very walls I was surveilling. Was it just a mere coincidence, or something more? Doubts and questions raced through my mind as I leaned closer to the window near the front door, straining to hear better.

The ringing ceased abruptly, replaced by Jamie's voice on the MessageBank, instructing me to leave a message. A chill ran down my spine. Was Jamie's phone actually inside the house? Could Jamie himself be here? The possibility sent a surge of both hope and fear through me. Why hadn't Jamie answered the phone?

Driven by a mix of curiosity and an urgent need for answers, I redialed Jamie's number, my breath held in anticipation. Once again, the muffled sound of ringing filled the silence inside the house. I moved swiftly to the kitchen window, carefully peeking over the sill to gain a view inside. My heart pounded in my chest as I saw it – Jamie's phone, lying on the kitchen bench, my number flashing on its screen as it rang unanswered.

I stood there, frozen, watching intently for any sign of movement, for anyone to pick up the phone. But the house remained eerily still, no signs of life evident. A nagging thought wormed its way into my mind. Had someone seen me arrive? Did they know I was here, watching, waiting?

As I glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, I leaped over the fence into Luke's top-level backyard. Moving with the stealth of a shadow, I stayed low, creeping beneath the bathroom window and skirting the backdoor. I paused when I reached the edge of the back bedroom window, which was veiled in darkness. The blinds fluttered slightly in the night breeze, and I noticed the window was still broken, just as I had left it. A chill ran up my spine, the eerie echo of "Bye Karl" reverberating in my mind. It was a chilling reminder of my night terror, and it stirred a nauseating mix of fear and anxiety within me. My rational mind was screaming at me to leave, but the deep-seated need for answers held me in place.

Positioning myself directly in front of the broken bedroom window, I tightened my black leather gloves and began a meticulous examination of the window's rim. I carefully removed any sharp glass shards that might cut me as I entered, gently placing them on the soft carpet inside. The window was large, almost as wide as the wall, and divided into two sections. As I lifted my right leg through the window, the sensation of the carpet beneath my foot contrasted with the sharp crunch of glass shards.

The situation felt surreal, almost like stepping into another realm. I was breaking into a house to find answers, driven by a sense of justice and a need to stop Luke Smith. The risks were high, but the potential payoff was higher. I was moving beyond the bounds of conventional policing, propelled by a personal vendetta and a professional obligation.

The sudden shout of a man's voice outside caught me off guard, my heart leaping into my throat. In a moment of startled imbalance, I tumbled clumsily into the bedroom, landing amidst the shards of broken glass with a thud. "Shit!" I hissed under my breath, scrambling to press myself against the back wall of the room. My eyes darted frantically, peering through the blinds for the source of the disturbance.

"Hey, it's good to see you again," a young woman's cheerful voice rang out, followed again by the deep, booming voice of the man. It seemed like a casual greeting between neighbours, nothing to do with my clandestine intrusion.

A wave of relief washed over me, though my heart continued to hammer in my chest. I watched the couple for several more minutes as they disappeared into the house across the street. If they had seen me, they appeared not to have paid any attention. It was a small comfort, but I couldn't help feeling exposed and vulnerable.

As I sat in the corner of the nearly empty room, my gaze swept over the space. It was starkly different from before; every single garbage bag was gone. This observation sent a new shiver down my spine. Were there other bodies hidden here? Was Luke Smith lurking somewhere, waiting for the opportune moment to strike? The notion of being caught off-guard in such an unarmed position was terrifying.

I slowly stood up, my legs shaky from the adrenaline and the realisation of my precarious situation. Approaching the fully open bedroom door, I felt a slight sense of relief that at least I wouldn't be startled by any creepy voices from behind it tonight. Yet, that small comfort did little to ease the gnawing sense of foolishness coursing through me. I was alone, unarmed, and in the house of a man I believed to be a murderer. It was a stark reminder of the risks I had taken in my quest for justice, and the potential consequences that could follow. With cautious steps, I moved towards the door.

Rooted in place near the toilet that obstructed my view down the hallway, I took a brief pause to collect my thoughts and strategise. I needed a plan, and quickly. My decision was to conduct a swift check of each room on my way to the kitchen, starting with the master bedroom directly opposite me. Peering through the doorway, it seemed all clear, devoid of any immediate threat.

With each step down the long hallway, my tension mounted. A jolt of fear shot through me as I unwittingly caught my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Shaking off the momentary scare, I refocused on my objective. The entrance to the open-plan kitchen and living room was tantalisingly close now, just a few feet away. I edged forward, taking small, cautious steps.

As I was about to take the final step into the open space, a startling noise halted me: the sound of another body entering through the open window, accompanied by the telltale crackle of glass shards underfoot. My mind whirled with panic and indecision. Confronting the intruder was a risk, especially given my unarmed and vulnerable state. But the area ahead remained shrouded in uncertainty, possibly harbouring unknown dangers.

In that split second, I understood the gravity of my situation. I was trapped between the devil and the deep sea, with no easy escape. The need to make a quick decision pressed heavily on me. Do I confront the unknown intruder, potentially putting myself in immediate danger? Or do I venture into the unexplored space ahead, where unseen threats might lurk? Time was not on my side, and the need for swift action was paramount. My heart pounded against my ribcage, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I prepared to make my move, to choose a path in this high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

My instincts surged to the forefront, guiding my actions in the split second I had to decide. The kitchen was just within reach, and I made the snap judgment that it would offer me a chance to arm myself. Without a moment's hesitation, I ducked into the kitchen, bypassing any attempt to survey my surroundings due to the urgency of the situation.

I darted between the island bench and the pantry, heading straight for the corner where I remembered seeing the knife block during our previous visit with Gladys. My heart was racing, each second feeling crucial. Reaching into the darkness where the knife block should have been, my fingers grasped at nothingness. The realisation hit me hard – it was gone. The entire benchtop, usually adorned with utensils and kitchen tools, was eerily empty. "Shit," I muttered under my breath, a mix of frustration and panic setting in. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions, trying to piece together my next move.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, driven more by instinct than rationale, I snatched Jamie's phone from the island bench. With the phone in hand, I crouched down, concealing myself behind the bench. The tension in the air was palpable as I heard the intruder enter the room. I held my breath, my body tensed for whatever was to come. The sound of footsteps moving about the room filled the silence, each step echoing with the potential of imminent confrontation.

As I stayed hidden, my mind raced with possibilities and scenarios. Who was this intruder? What were their intentions? The uncertainty of the situation heightened my senses, and I prepared myself for the possibility of having to defend or reveal myself. The stolen moments of hiding behind the bench felt like an eternity, each second stretching out as I waited for the intruder to make the next move. The adrenaline rush was both a curse and a blessing, sharpening my focus while fuelling my anxiety about the unfolding situation.

As the mysterious presence moved about the room, I remained motionless, holding my breath, expecting an intruder, possibly Luke Smith himself. The tension was almost unbearable.

Then, to my astonishment and slight relief, a cat-sized possum emerged, sniffing its way around the corner of the island bench, its attention drawn to the bin. Realising my presence, startled, the possum scampered away down the hallway. The absurdity of the situation almost made me laugh, but it was tinged with a sense of relief. A small, involuntary smile found its way to my face despite the gravity of the night's events. This was indeed a night to remember – fraught with tension, fear, and now, a touch of unintended comedy.

Just as I was about to stand up, Jamie's phone in my hand suddenly sprang to life, ringing and pulling my thoughts back to the seriousness of the situation. My face hardened as I saw the incoming call. It was Sarah. Confusion clouded my mind. Why was she calling Jamie's number? What connection did she have to all of this? Questions swirled in my head, adding to the pile of unanswered mysteries of the night.

I let the phone ring for a few more seconds, my mind racing, trying to make sense of it all. Then, with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, I gingerly pressed the answer button and brought the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I spoke into the phone, my voice low. I waited, my heart pounding.

Sarah's voice crackled through the phone, her words laced with urgency and fear. "Karl," she said, unmistakably her. "You need to listen to me. You need to get out, right now!" And then, without warning, the call ended, leaving a silence that was almost deafening.

I stood there, frozen for a moment, bewildered. How did Sarah know where I was? And why was she so terrified? A thousand questions raced through my mind, but there was no time to ponder them. I turned towards the living room, my senses heightened, my mind racing.

That's when I saw him – a large man, dressed entirely in black, emerging from the stairs into the room. In the dim light, I couldn't make out his features, but I assumed it had to be Luke. My heart pounded in my chest as adrenaline coursed through my veins.

As the man made a beeline for me, instinct and survival kicked in. I dashed into the dining room, grabbed a dining chair, and swung it in front of me, a desperate attempt to create a barrier between myself and the assailant. But it was futile. The man, with his bearish strength, effortlessly grabbed the top leg of the chair and yanked it from my grip with a single, powerful pull.

I was now defenceless, my only shield torn away. The man's imposing presence loomed over me, his intentions unclear but undoubtedly hostile. My mind raced for a plan, for any means of escape or defence. I was cornered, outmatched in strength, and without a weapon. My training as a detective had prepared me for many scenarios, but the reality of this confrontation was more intense and frightening than any simulation.

I squared my shoulders, ready to face whatever came next. I knew I had to rely on my wits and agility to survive this encounter. The room seemed to close in around us, the tension palpable, a silent battle of wills and strength about to unfold.

My survival instincts kicked into high gear. I knew I had to incapacitate the man, presumed to be Luke, long enough to make my escape. Without a second thought, I charged headfirst, my body a battering ram aimed at his chest. The surprise attack worked. Luke, caught off guard, lost his balance, and we both crashed to the floor in a heap.

Scrambling to my feet, I lunged towards the hallway door, desperate to put distance between us. But my attempt was short-lived. In a swift motion, Luke grabbed my left foot, yanking it out from under me. I hit the floor hard, the carpet grazing my chin as Luke dragged me back.

In a desperate move, I executed a semi-roll, flipping my legs in a kick that sent Luke reeling. The force of my kick was more than I had intended. Luke cried out, losing his grip and his footing on the carpeted stairs. Reacting instinctively, I reached out to stop his fall, my hand finding his in a fleeting moment of connection. But it was too late; Luke's backward tumble had already begun, and in my attempt to save him, I found myself being pulled down the stairs with him.

As Luke and I tumbled down the stairs in a chaotic dance of arms and legs, the adrenaline pumping through my veins numbed me to the immediate pain. My focus was solely on survival, on stopping our fall. But amidst the chaos, my elbow smashed into the wall, dislodging chunks of plaster that rained over us. The pain was a distant sensation, overshadowed by the urgency of the moment.

The end of our tumultuous descent was abrupt and horrifying. By some twist of fate, I found myself landing on Luke's head. The momentum of our fall was relentless, and in a sickening moment, I felt and heard the unmistakable crack of a skull and the snap of a neck, as Luke's head collided with the doorframe, and my legs inadvertently delivered the final, fatal blow.

Staring down at Luke's lifeless body, his dark, unseeing eyes wide open, a profound sense of shock and horror washed over me. I had experienced the harrowing reality of taking a life before, but never like this – never in such a visceral, brutal manner. The raw physicality of it, the close proximity to death, was overwhelming.

Nausea surged within me, bile burning its way up my throat as the reality of what had just happened set in. I had to leave, to escape this scene of accidental death. With a heavy heart and a body trembling from shock, adrenaline, and the aftereffects of the fall, I rolled off Luke's body. I lay on the floor for a moment, giving myself time to process, to allow the nausea to subside.

As I stood up, a sense of urgency and panic took over. I began to pace the downstairs room, my mind racing. "Fuck!" I exclaimed aloud, my pacing intensifying with each step. The reality of the situation was overwhelming – there was a dead man lying in front of me. What am I going to do with the body? I couldn't call it in; my presence here was unauthorised, unexplained. I was in deep trouble.

My eyes fell on a small door that led to the cupboard under the stairs. Acting on instinct and desperation, I dragged the heavy body across the floor towards the cupboard. The physical effort was immense, but my mind was too clouded with panic to fully register the strain. As I moved the body, the man's face momentarily caught the edge of the moonlight escaping from behind heavy clouds, and  streaming from through the large glass sliding door that led to the backyard. I paused, shifting the face back into the full glow of the moonlight. "Shit," I muttered to myself, a sinking realisation hitting me. This isn't Luke Smith.

I didn't recognise the man at all. Frantically, I searched the body for any form of identification, coming up empty except for a small, plastic access card in the man's trouser pocket. It was blank, which struck me as odd, but I didn't have time to ponder its significance. With a heavy heart and a mind clouded with anxiety, I shoved the body into the cupboard under the stairs and forcefully closed the door, listening for the click that confirmed it was shut.

My initial intention of searching the rest of the house for clues linking Luke to the disappearances was now forgotten in the wake of this unforeseen catastrophe. I hastily made my way back up the stairs and, with cautious precision, climbed back out through the broken window.

Once outside, I stuck to the shadows, creeping along the back of the house. I paused for a moment to ensure I was alone before vaulting over the back fence. Then, driven by a mix of fear, guilt, and an overwhelming need to escape, I ran. I ran without stopping, not daring to look back, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The night had taken a turn I never could have anticipated, leaving me with more questions and a deepening sense of dread about the implications of what had just transpired.

The escape back to my car felt like a blur, a frenzied dash fuelled by a mix of exhaustion, emotion, and adrenaline. By the time I reached the river, my breath was ragged, my body aching from the physical and mental toll of the night's events. I let myself into the car, the familiar confines offering a brief respite from the chaos.

Sitting there in the driver's seat, I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my racing heart and calm my jumbled thoughts. The small plastic card I had found on the unknown man's body was still in my hands, turning absentmindedly between my fingers. It felt like a significant clue, yet its meaning was still shrouded in mystery.

With a deep breath, I flicked on the car's interior light, illuminating the cabin with a soft glow. It was time to take a closer look at this enigmatic piece of plastic. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I focused on the card. There was no image, no obvious identifier, but now, under the light, I could see words embossed on its surface.

The words "Killerton Enterprises" were etched into the white plastic, clear and unmistakable. A shiver of apprehension coursed through me as I read the words. Killerton Enterprises – the name was familiar, resonating with an deep sense of dreadful foreboding.