Chapter 11: The Second Murder Notice

**London — Late at Night**

The black Volkswagen sped through the crisscrossing roads. Victor Black didn't drive straight to David Smith's home. Instead, he pulled into an abandoned construction site.

After stepping out of the car, he scanned the area and picked up a loose cement brick. From his coat, he retrieved an old Nokia phone and tucked it into the gap beneath the brick. Satisfied, he returned to the car and resumed his route toward Smith's residence.

By eleven o'clock, Victor reached the East District's urban village. This time, he parked far from the target and approached on foot. Ten minutes later, he crouched in a shadowy corner, dozens of meters from Smith's house.

He mentally rehearsed the plan, checking for flaws. Finding none, he pulled out a voice changer.

---

**Scotland Yard — Serious Crime Unit Office**

The team had been under crushing pressure since their last meeting. The "Ghost" remained elusive. Beyond the single phone, there were no leads. Fingerprints and material analysis yielded nothing. Most officers privately agreed: pursuing the Ghost was futile.

Yet despite protocol dictating Margaret Wilson's release, the investigation fixated on her.

First, detectives combed through her relationships and communications. As Sebastian predicted, nothing stood out.

Next, they probed her medical history and penicillin purchases. Again, dead ends.

Finally, Sebastian suggested the only path to convict her: finding evidence of her disposing of the drug.

"If she collected penicillin, she needed a container," he reasoned. "Find that, and we have her."

But even after tearing apart her villa, the police found nothing.

Unbeknownst to them, Margaret's "container" was a sugar box. After using the penicillin, she ate it. A brilliant move—one Sebastian never anticipated. By the time he might have guessed, the evidence had dissolved in her stomach.

A week of sleepless nights left the team exhausted. In the conference room, dark circles and slumped postures told the story.

"Snap out of it!" barked James Morrison. "No crime's perfect. We've missed something—*think*!"

Emily burst in, pale. "James—the Ghost is calling again!"

"Patch it through!"

The landline rang. James snatched the receiver.

"*James… how's the hunt?*"

"What do you want?"

"A game of chess. Let's cut to it: David Smith, 47, No. 47 Whitechapel Road. I'll kill him within the hour. A race against time. Who'll win?"

"I'll drag you to hell myself—"

The line went dead.

James seethed but stayed focused. "All units—move! *Now!*"

The room emptied in seconds. James turned to Sebastian. "Hold the fort."

Sebastian nodded. "Don't get your hopes up. Smith's already dead."

Ignoring him, James stormed out.

Alone, Sebastian's eyes gleamed. He loved puzzles.

"Trace the call!" he ordered. "Pull Smith's vehicle records! Take over traffic cams—*now*! And Emily—coffee!"

Leaning back, he drummed his fingers, waiting.

---

**No. 47 Whitechapel Road — East London**

Some people are societal parasites.

Spoiled as children, they skived school, brawled, stole. As adults, they leeched off their parents, chasing vanity and vice. Even marriage didn't reform them—they remained lazy, selfish, and amoral.

David Smith was one such man.

A petty thug in youth, he'd avoided true evil—until twenty years ago. Desperate to pay gambling debts, he took a shady job… and accidentally killed an old woman.

The blood money cleared his debts, bought property, and funded a short-lived marriage. Now divorced, he lived off rent, too lazy and paranoid to work. His days blurred into gaming, smoking, and boredom.

Tonight, he glared at his phone. "*Game Over.*"

He cursed, grabbing a cigarette.

The phone rang—unknown number. He hung up.

It rang again.

"The hell?" he growled, answering.