Her thoughts were interrupted by a distant and intermittent revving followed by a lengthier whine. A chainsaw. She wished she could have shielded Richard from the macabre reality of what was taking place in the bunker kitchen. Maybe he thought the killer was sawing wood. She left him to his own thoughts and pushed away the goings on two floors below.
She wondered who the dead woman was. A local? A tourist? She had a pretty face. A little pixie-like, from memory. Too young and too sweet to be killed. Clarissa regretted not searching the corpse. She shouldn’t have let Richard’s horror impede her own natural curiosity. That poor woman. She’d suffered a violent death. Strangled by bare hands. Smacked of an act of violent passion, of rage. The husband or partner perhaps. What of the peculiar t
