“It’s certainly the homeless man’s ear,” David confirmed to Chris as he disconnected the call. “Shaun checked.”

Chris didn’t respond. Both men walked in silence, lost in thought as they neared Andrew Street. Chris intended to investigate the area where Harper had found the body. David hadn’t been asked to come along, but he came anyway. This case was as much a puzzle to him as it was to Chris.

It seemed that the killer wanted to get Chris’s attention. But why? Who wanted to involve the police? And what did they expect from it? Unanswered questions stormed through Chris’s mind.

“Bobby Simpson!” David suddenly remarked. “Must be Bobby. There’s been no sign of him since he went into hiding. Maybe he’s back to his old tricks.”

“No,” Chris replied, considering the possibility. “I don’t think he’s dumb enough to come back to Sherrinford. The smartest move for him would be to get as far away as possible, maybe find work on a farm somewhere.”

“Do you think it’s him?” David asked after weighing his words for a moment.

“Who? The Count?”

“No. Frank.”

Franklin Rivera—aka the Baron—had been the Count’s right-hand man. Once imprisoned, he had escaped not long after and hadn’t been seen since.

“No,” Chris said.

“I mean… I’ve been thinking. It makes sense, right? With the Count lookalike sightings and all. Maybe he’s out to taunt us. To avenge his boss.”

“Not his style,” Chris replied, though a flicker of doubt lingered.

“Then who sent the ear? And why?”

“And how did he get in? Only Robert, Mrs. Robinson, and I have keys to the main door. The only other person with access is the boy who delivers Mrs. Robinson’s groceries and medicine every week. He’s a young lad—not the type to do something like this. Robert got here before me last night and swears he locked the door after entering. It was still locked when I arrived.”

“Maybe we should talk to the boy,” David suggested. “See if he was asked to deliver it to you.”

“Yeah… I’ll try to get hold of him.”

Again, silence fell between them. They walked on until they came across the faded metal sign that read ANDREW STREET.

“What now?” David asked.

The road ahead was anything but inviting. Most of the buildings were in various states of decay, their brickwork darkened by years of rain and grime, patches of moss creeping up the walls. Several had boarded-up windows, and one had a sheet of plastic hanging where the front door should have been. A few weather-beaten wooden structures stood among the crumbling brick houses, their roofs sagging under the weight of years of neglect. A rusted oil drum burned outside one of the buildings, sending a thin column of smoke into the cold air. A handful of people stood around it, warming their hands. None of them looked friendly.

“We need to find someone who knows what happened,” Chris said.

As they walked down Andrew Street, Chris noticed the suspicious stares and hostile glares directed their way. The people here naturally despised cops. In a corner, a young boy, around ten years old, leaned against a wall, tossing a coin into the air. He glanced at the two well-dressed men before turning his attention back to the coin.

“Hey, boy!” Chris called out. “We’re from the Sherrinford Police. We got some questions for you.”

That was all Chris managed to say before the terrified boy bolted.

“Great start, Chris!” David quipped.

The boy ran to a muscular man sitting by the burning barrel, hid behind him, and pointed at Chris and David.

“He said we’re police,” Chris muttered to David. “Let’s talk to them without causing a scene.”

“You are one to talk.”

Chris and David approached the group. The brawny man stood up, the child clinging to his coat. His expression was anything but friendly, and the rest of the crowd followed his lead and stood up.

“Sherrinford Police. I’m Detective Inspector Chris Tyler, and this is my friend David,” Chris said, showing the police badge inside his coat.

“Barnes,” the man grunted, briefly introducing himself. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on the firearm beneath Chris’s coat.

“We need your help,” David interjected. “Do you know anything about the old man who was killed here?”

Barnes took his time before responding.

“Nope.”

“You don’t?” Chris echoed. He pulled out a photo of the corpse, holding it up for the crowd to see. “Does anyone recognize this man?”

Silence.

“This man was killed on Christmas night and hung on the footbridge. None of you know anything about him, is that it? It’d be easier for everyone if you tell us what you know now,” Chris said with a sigh.

“Everythin’ we know, we’ve already told the polis that came by yesterday,” one of the men in the crowd spoke up.

“Nae one on this street’s involved in that killin’!” Barnes added, stepping toward Chris. “We’d ken if anyone ‘round here did it. Ain’t right for you filth to come blamin’ us!”

Barnes’s face was reddened with anger, his fists clenched.

“Coppers,” Barnes sarcastically corrected himself.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re not here to accuse anyone. We just want to catch the murderer. If none of your people are involved, there’s no harm in cooperating, right?” Chris said calmly.

Barnes seemed to relax slightly, though he was still breathing heavily.

“What’s this guy’s name?” Chris asked.

“Joseph.”

“Do you know why Joseph was killed like this?”

“Joseph was a poor ol’ beggar. Who’d wanna kill a guy like that?”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Dunno. No enemies. No friends. Didn’t talk to no one.”

“Where was the body found?”

“’Twas hangin’ on the railin’ of that bridge early in the mornin’—’round five,” the man replied.

“Can someone show us the exact spot?”

“Tim!” Barnes shouted. “Help ’em, gentlemen, so they can finish their work quick.”

The little boy, still peeking from behind Barnes, hesitated but reluctantly stepped forward, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Didn’t ya hear me?” Barnes thundered.

Tim froze for a moment, then cautiously obeyed, edging closer to Chris.

“So, Tim,” Chris said, offering a warm, reassuring smile. “Will you help us?”

Tim looked up at Chris. “Alright,” he said.

With Tim leading the way, Chris and David walked toward the footbridge. The structure looked like it was decaying before their eyes, barely holding itself together.

“Tim, why are you so afraid of the police?” David asked in a friendly tone.

Tim didn’t answer, continuing forward silently. He reached the foot of the stairs and pointed to the centre of the footbridge. “There,” he said.

“Chris, I don’t think this is a good idea. This thing could collapse any moment. One wrong step, and you’ll fall right through.”

“I need to take a closer look, Dave. You stay here.”

Chris and Tim ascended the stairs, the bridge creaking ominously beneath their feet. Tim stopped in the centre and waited for Chris.

The bridge had iron railings on either side, and large holes dotted its metal roof, held up by weak-looking pillars. Snowflakes drifted through the gaps, melting on the surface and making it dangerously slippery. Chris couldn’t fathom why the killer had chosen this place to display the body.

Pointing at a pillar, Tim said, “Here.”

The rusted metal pillar connected to the railing bore clear marks of a rope. Dark spots on the bridge, possibly blood, were also visible. Chris observed carefully but found nothing more.

“Chris?” David called from below. “What’s going on? Found anything?”

Chris leaned over the railing, looking down at David’s impatient face.

“No luck, Dave. I’m coming down.”

As Chris turned to leave, he froze. His breath caught as his gaze lifted to the wall of a nearby building, visible from the bridge. Splashed across the wall in crude, bright yellow spray paint was a massive stick figure hanging from a gallows. He recognised it instantly; a child’s game: Hangman. Below the figure, partially completed in the same yellow paint, was the phrase:

Ty_er, _ am hom_

****

“Dave, hurry up!” Chris called over his shoulder.

“Can you please tell me where we’re going now?” David asked, panting.

Chris turned sharply into a narrow path between two buildings. His mind was a whirlwind of chaos, unable to settle on a single coherent thought.

The alleyway was far filthier than the main road. Chris quickened his pace, weaving past moss-covered walls, slick cobblestones, and grime-filled drains. He could hear David struggling to catch up, his footsteps hurried and worried.

At a corner, a group of young men lingered, smoking weed while blocking the path.

“Police! Move aside!” Chris barked.

The hostile expressions on the young men’s faces vanished instantly at Chris’s command. Without waiting for a second warning, the young men scattered.

David raised an eyebrow and shook his head as they moved through.

“Seriously, man, what’s going on? You look almost scared. Thought you were immune to that emotion,” David said sarcastically. “Look, you’ve got to tell me where we’re going, or I’m heading back. Just look at this muck…”

David’s voice trailed off as they rounded the corner. There, looming before them, was the brick wall Chris had seen from the footbridge. It belonged to a building that stood out; solid and imposing compared to the ramshackle structures around it. An abandoned factory, by the looks of it. Above them was the stick figure and the chilling incomplete message with Chris’s name. David stared at it in shock.

“What the… How the hell is this possible?” David muttered, his eyes still glued to the wall.

“If someone climbed out the window, kept one foot on the ledge and the other on that pipeline, they could’ve written this on the wall,” Chris said thoughtfully. “Risky business. One wrong move and they’d fall.”

“Chris!” David snapped. “You know that’s not what I meant. This murder—this message, it’s meant for you.”

Although Chris knew that already, David’s words struck a nerve. The corpse, the ear in the box, the footbridge, and now this cryptic message. All of it was connected, each leading to the next, meticulously designed by the killer to draw Chris in. He knew how to access Chris’s flat. He knew Chris would come to Andrew Street. He knew Chris would spot the message from the footbridge. It was as if Chris was a puppet in some twisted play. But who could be the puppet master? Who was this shadowy, audacious killer?

David glanced at Chris, whose gaze was fixed on the wall, his face drawn, brows furrowed in deep thought.

“What do you make of this?” David asked.

“Huh?”

“You’ve got theories. Spill them.”

Chris exhaled slowly, organizing his thoughts.

“It’s the children’s game, hangman,” Chris began. “Except this isn’t a game. A man was murdered and hanged, just so I would see this message. The full phrase is obviously ‘Tyler, I am home.’ The missing letters—L, I, and E—spell ‘lie.’ Can’t be an accident.”

Chris pointed to the side of the message, where there were some additional markings, made with the same yellow paint.

“Then there’s the incorrect guesses: F, C, O, B, S, L, U. And the number 3. A number in a hangman game isn’t normal. This was intentional. Those discarded letters are another message. Rearranged with the number, the only meaningful phrase I can come up with is ‘3 of clubs.’”

“The playing card?” David asked, frowning.

“Aye.”

“Mean anything to you?”

“Not a clue,” Chris admitted. “Who would do something like this?”

“You know exactly what I am thinking.”

“Frank?”

“No! The Count. I mean who are we kidding, Chris? This has his name written all over it. You and I both know only that sick son of a bitch enjoys games like this. There’s no one else twisted or bold enough to taunt the police and come after you.” David’s voice was rising now, edged with anger and irritation. “Given all that, do you still think it’s just a coincidence I ran into someone who looks exactly like him?”

Chris was silent for a long moment. Then, with a faint, dismissive smile, he said, “The Count’s dead, Dave. It’s absurd to think he’s clawed his way out of the grave and started wandering the streets of Sherrinford. Let’s find out who really did this.”

As the biting December winds swept through the city, Chris and David turned back and headed toward the police HQ, both perplexed and uneasy.

At the far end of the narrow alley, a figure remained hidden in the shadows, his presence barely noticeable in the early light. His hawk-like eyes tracked Chris and David as they exited the alley and made their way back to Andrew Street. Once they were out of sight, the man retreated into the darkness, blending effortlessly with the perpetual gloom of the city.