Dedication

Gooooood afternoon! You’re listening to Stewie Carson on CityRadio103 and it’s a beautiful day for lovers. I’m with you for the next three hours, playing romantic tunes to get you in the mood for love. To have your Valentine’s request played for that special someone, email Stewie@CityRadio or text now on 1744…”

Stewie brought up the volume on the afternoon’s first request, flicked the switch to kill his mic and took a long, grateful slurp of coffee, favouring the intern who’d just sidled in to place it meekly next to him with a wink and a mouthed “thank you”. Better late than never. As he hooked one headphone off his ear, the strains of “Saving All My Love For You” quietened and he wondered fleetingly who was sneaking around with Sheryl in Denleigh. The half-remembered name brought a smile to his lips, as he recalled a little past sneaking of his own.

Whitney warbled, “I’d rather be hoooooome, feeling blu-u-u-ue,” and he shrugged off a trace of guilt. He’d ended it before his wife had suspected anything. He always did. If he couldn’t be faithful – and who could in his shoes, with women throwing themselves at him at every function he attended? – at least he made sure he covered his tracks. As far as his wife knew, he was the perfect husband. He made a mental note to buy flowers on the way home and swallowed a last gulp of coffee as the song faded and the intern slid the details of his next request in front of him on a post-it note. Another sneaker, by the looks of it. “Next up, ‘Rewrite the Stars,’ for Chloe in Cedar Ridge, from you-know-who.”

Detective Sergeant McMichaels grimaced as the victim’s phone circled through another repeat. It was disconcerting checking the crime-scene of a jumper with Zendaya crooning “all I want is to fall with you” in the background. Damned Valentine’s Day. Always the highest body count, after New Year’s.

“Ok, take her away,” he instructed the attending SOCO. “Nothing to see here – wait!” He nudged the phone with his shoe, flipping it. There was a post-it note stuck to the floral case. “A Valentine’s gift for Stewie at CityRadio,” he read aloud. As the SOCO rushed to grab an evidence bag, something in his guts told him this wasn’t a suicide note.

By the time his squad car pulled into the CityRadio parking lot that afternoon there were already journalists waiting. After that first body, the calls had come thick and fast, and word was out about a killer social media was already calling the Valentine Murderer. Some of the bodies were fresh, like the poor woman still dripping gore to the jaunty strains of “Got You Under My Skin.” The others, well, not so much. He winced at the memory of the emaciated corpse they’d found with “Unchained Melody” playing in the background. Someone had clearly been working on this for a long time.

“Get him off air, now,” he growled to the balding producer in the outer office, flashing his badge.

“But–”

“Now! And get me a log of all the calls you received today,” he barked to the flustered intern hovering in the doorway. Shame he couldn’t finger Stewie Carson for this. He’d always loathed the slimy prick, but unfortunately he had the perfect excuse. He’d been on air while at least one of the murders was taking place.

“What the hell’s going on?” Carson blustered out into the corridor, ostentatiously slinging his headphones around his neck. “You’ve got 2 minutes 26 seconds until this song’s finished!”

“Detective Inspector McMichaels, Mr Carson. And I think you’ll find I’ve got as long as I damned well please.”

___

Stewie exhaled heavily and slumped his head against the steering wheel. An hour-long interview with the law wasn’t how he’d pictured today going. Firing up the engine, he pulled out of the parking lot in the opposite direction to home. After the grilling that sanctimonious plod had given him, he needed a drink. Marie’s flowers would have to wait. So would Marie. Well, she was used to it, he thought ruefully.

“Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?” McMichaels had demanded, after bringing him up to speed with what the police had been finding all day.

Stewie had shrugged. “Everyone loves me!”

“Evidently,” the detective sneered. “What reason could this person have for dedicating murders to you? That’s classic attention-seeking behaviour, Mr Carson. Who wants your attention badly enough to kill for it?”

“Search me!” he’d spread his hands wide, then wondered if McMichaels might actually do it. He looked pretty eager to pin something on him. But the gloomy detective had just stared at him, so he’d gone on, “I’m a celebrity, right? Everyone wants my attention.” He paused to flash a reassuring grin at the intern peering anxiously through the office door. “I’m not the only star to have a deranged stalker.”

“No, but you’re the only one generating murders on my patch. So I need motive, Mr Carson,” and he’d given Stewie a look like his old headmaster. “What dirty little secrets are you hiding?”

Stewie gestured to the barmaid and headed for a table in the back corner. He could do without being recognised today. The first tang of whiskey burned a little of the tension away, but it couldn’t do much to warm the pit that had opened in his stomach when McMichaels told him his theory.

“I think all the victims were linked to you in some way. Tell me, Mr Carson. Are you in the habit of having extra-marital affairs?”

He passed a hand across his face. He’d been so careful. But had he? Careful not to let Marie find out, because she was the only one who mattered. Other people though? One of the women he’d had a little fun with and then left behind? Had he bruised some ex’s ego so badly they were out for revenge?

He cringed as he remembered McMichael’s judgementally raised eyebrow. “So, you can’t actually remember the names of all the women you’ve slept with? Perhaps this will help.” And he’d flipped open his notebook and reeled off details of the victims. Stewie wasn’t sure which was worse – his own growing recognition, or the detective’s burgeoning glee that his theory had been right.

“Now if you can just tell me which names are missing off my list, Mr Carson, I can catch this murderer a lot more speedily.”

But of course, he couldn’t. So he’d been sent home with his tail between his legs, while the producer loaded up the emergency playlist, and the trembling intern handed over the day’s call log to one of McMichael’s underlings.

“On the house,’ the barmaid cooed, placing another whiskey in front of him. “Anything I can do to cheer you up?”

“Not today thanks, Carrie.” He knocked it back in one and shrugged on his coat. The least he could do was get back to Marie in time for dinner. After all this came out, it might be the last one she’d ever cook for him.

The aroma of roast chicken filled the house as he wearily closed the door and threw his car-keys into the bowl on the hall table.

“Marie? I’m home.”

“Up here darling!” Her voice came thinly over the sweet, distorted notes of Costello’s “I Want You” playing on the smart speaker.

“Just a minute!” In the kitchen, he sloshed water into the sink and carefully propped the roses against the tap so she’d see them when she served up dinner. He pulled the chocolates from under his arm and climbed the stairs.

“Oh sweetheart, you won’t believe the day I’ve had!” He stopped. The room was bright with flickering candles, the blankets on the bed heaped in a suspicious pile. From the speakers, Costello warned, “I’m afraid I won’t know where to stop.”

“Marie?” His heart skipped a beat.

When he pulled back the covers though, she smiled sweetly up at him, alive and well, in a scarlet corset and suspenders.

“What’s all this?”

“Oh, I thought I’d spice things up a little,” she winked. “We’ve got half an hour until the chicken’s done.”

“I seem to have found my appetite already,” he growled, pulling off his shirt.

She watched him undress, but when he climbed onto the bed and leaned over her she shook her head. “Tonight’s my turn,” she murmured, and slid a pair of fur-covered handcuffs from beneath the pillow. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”  He was so surprised, he barely heard his phone ringing, and he wasn’t about to answer it anyway.

___

Detective McMichaels swore as the phone rang out. “Send a squad car around there, pronto. With any luck we can reach the stupid bastard before it’s too late.”

As it happened, they got there a few minutes after Marie’s mini slipped out of the driveway, but just in time to see the bedroom curtains catch light. Kicking in the door, the first constable on the scene was blown backwards less by the heat than from The Bangles’ “Eternal Flame” blasting from a speaker somewhere, so loudly it almost drowned out the screams.