Dagon liked tea.

He preferred it when it was made with the leaves in a teapot. Teabags just couldn’t compete, no matter what irregular shape they chose to make them.

He liked to pour the hot water slowly into the pot, watching intently as it spread amongst the leaves in the bottom, absorbing the water and infusing it with their exquisite flavour.

He would start with a small amount – just enough to wet all the leaves – then carefully tip and rotate the pot until the water was a deep red colour. Then he’d add more water and apply the lid.

Then came the unbearable wait.

Sometimes he would imagine himself as a tea leaf, swimming in the fragrant ocean surrounded by the embrace of silver.

Total freedom.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, he would lift the lid, stir the tea, then complete this holy ritual by pouring the sacred liquid into the finest cup he could locate.

The fact that he always made tea in his murder victims’ house made it even more exquisite.