Class Murder E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 510

Beschreibung

With so many potential victims to choose from, there would be many deaths. He was spoiled for choice, really, but he was determined to take his time and select his targets carefully. Only by controlling his feelings could he maintain his success. He smiled to himself. If he was clever, he would never have to stop. And he was clever. He was very clever. Far too clever to be caught. Geraldine Steel is back for her tenth case. Reunited in York with her former sergeant, Ian Peterson, she discovers that her tendency to bend the rules has consequences. The tables have turned, and now he's the boss. When two people are murdered, their only connection lies buried in the past. As police search for the elusive killer, another body is discovered. Pursuing her first investigation in York, Geraldine struggles to solve the confusing case. How can she expose the killer, and rescue her shattered reputation, when all the witnesses are being murdered?

Leseprobe

CLASS MURDER

With so many potential victims to choose from, there would be many deaths. He was spoiled for choice, really, but he was determined to take his time and select his targets carefully. Only by controlling his feelings could he maintain his success. He smiled to himself. If he was clever, he would never have to stop. And he was clever. He was very clever. Far too clever to be caught.

Geraldine Steel is reunited with her former sergeant, Ian Peterson.

When two people are murdered, their only connection lies buried in the past. As police search for the elusive killer, another body is discovered. Pursuing her first investigation in York, Geraldine Steel struggles to solve the baffling case. How can she expose the killer, and rescue her shattered reputation, when all the witnesses are being murdered?

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

‘a rare talent, and this seventh underlines it’ –Daily Mail

‘Unmissable’–Lee Child

‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural’ –Marcel Berlins,The Times

‘taut and compelling, stylishly written with a deeply human voice’ –Peter James

To Michael, Joanna, Phillipa, Phil, Rian and Kezia

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his expert medical advice, and all my contacts in the Metropolitan Police for their invaluable assistance.

Producing a book is a team effort. I am fortunate to have the guidance of a brilliant editor, Keshini Naidoo. I am very grateful to Ion Mills, Claire Watts, Clare Quinlivan, Katherine Sunderland, Frances Teehan, Jem Cook and all the team at No Exit Press, who transform my words into books. I would also like to thank Anne Cater and her wonderful team of bloggers for organising my blog tour. I am grateful for their support which has been invaluable.

My final thanks go to Michael, who is always with me.

Glossary of acronyms

DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI – Detective Inspector

DS – Detective Sergeant

SOCO – Scene of the Crime Officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

PM – Post mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

CCTV – Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

VIIDO – Visual Images, Identification and Detections Office

Preface

He never forgot the first time the cat brought a bird into the house. A small brown creature, its wings were still flapping although its eyes were glazed above a beak that hung open. Warning him not to go anywhere near the dying bird, his mother chased the cat outside. He must have been about six or seven, young enough to obey his mother’s command without question. Returning to the kitchen, she explained that the cat had intended to bring her a present.

‘We feed Billy,’ she went on, ‘but it’s still a generous gesture. He could have kept the bird for himself. That’s his way of showing us he loves us. Cats aren’t like people.’

Her last comment had puzzled him. Of course he knew that cats weren’t like people. They had four legs, for a start, and they couldn’t talk. Another time, the cat brought in a dead mouse. His mother scooped it up in a wad of newspaper, leaving a streak of blood on the lino. After cleaning the floor and washing her hands, she turned to him with a sour expression on her face.

‘Don’t be upset with Billy,’ she said. ‘He was bringing us a present.’

Far from upset, he had been intrigued and vaguely excited at the enormity of what Billy had done.

It was a hot summer, with blazing days that seemed to stretch out endlessly, a childhood summer where he fell asleep before the sun set, and woke to see it rising in the sky. Crouching in dry grass behind the garden shed, he spent weeks devising a box with a lid that snapped shut as soon as a frail stick holding it open was dislodged. Discovering that his homemade contraption had succeeded was one of the highlights of his early childhood. His breath caught in his throat when he first saw the box was shut. Concealed beneath a hedge behind the garden shed, he was pretty sure no one else would have stumbled on it. Only a small animal could have set off the mechanism that snapped the box shut.

His hands trembled with excitement as he picked it up. There was no sound from inside the box, no frantic scuttling of tiny feet, no outraged squawking from a trapped creature. Dreading that he would open it only to find it empty, he lifted the lid a fraction and peered inside. There was no movement in the box. He slid the lid across another fraction and cried out at the sight of a tiny beady black eye glaring up at him.

Slamming the lid shut, he collapsed on the ground, laughing hysterically. It was a while before he calmed down enough to consider his next move. He wanted to be brave and kill the mouse with his bare hands, but he was afraid of being bitten. Apart from the pain, mice carried all sorts of disgusting diseases. Sitting on the ground behind the shed, feeling the dry grass prickly against his bare legs, he weighed up his various options.

In the end he chose to kill it with a stick, pressing down against the creature’s head until something cracked with a minute jolt rather than a sound. Spellbound, he watched a thin trickle of blood seep into the untreated wood. He couldn’t explain what was happening, but he understood that something significant was taking place through a process he himself had initiated with his own hands inside a box he had made.

His mother’s reaction when he handed her a dead mouse had been his first letdown in a life filled with disappointment.

‘It’s a present for you,’ he told her proudly. ‘I killed it myself.’

Her scream seemed to pierce his head. He was so shocked he dropped the mouse, which landed on the floor with a faint thud. Such a small sound for a dead body. His father came running into the kitchen. When his mother had recovered sufficiently to recount what had happened, his father scrubbed his hands before taking him into the living room and sitting him down.

‘Where did you find the mouse?’ he asked, his grey eyes sharp with concern.

‘I trapped it,’ he muttered, already less confident about boasting of his exploit.

‘You mean you found it?’

He shook his head.

‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

Pride in his accomplishment overcame his reticence as he recounted how he had set a trap in the garden and, after many attempts, had finally succeeded in catching a mouse.

‘And the animal was dead when you found it?’

Something in his father’s manner warned him to be cautious. ‘Sort of,’ he hedged.

‘So you finished it off to put it out of its misery?’

He nodded. It was a weird way of describing his experience but even at such a young age he could sense it might be best to conceal his feelings. Later that day he heard his father explaining to his mother that he had wanted to end the creature’s suffering.

‘He said it was a present for me,’ she replied in an odd stiff voice. ‘He told me he killed it himself.’ She burst into tears. ‘If he had a little brother or sister to keep him company, he wouldn’t be trying to copy Billy.’

He had often overheard his parents talking about wanting to give him a brother or sister. For some reason they were unable to do that. That was one of the disappointments of their lives but if they had bothered to ask him, he would have told them he was pleased not to have a noisy baby grabbing his toys, and hogging his parents’ attention. They were better off as they were.

He never told either of his parents that the mouse had not only been alive, but completely unharmed, when he had caught it.

He hadn’t expected the tiny creature to die so slowly. The memory made him smile. That, at least, hadn’t been a disappointment.

Contents

CLASS MURDER

Critical Acclaim for Leigh Russell

Acknowledgements

Glossary of acronyms

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Death Rope

About The Author

Copyright

1

The estate agent was apologetic about the state of the house.

‘The paintwork needs touching up and the wallpaper’s seen better days, but you can soon…’

‘The wallpaper’s not important,’ he interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand.

Clearly heartened by his potential client’s response, the estate agent continued. ‘You’re going to want to redecorate wherever you go. The windows will need replacing, eventually, but that’s been taken into account in the asking price.’

The state of the house must have put a lot of buyers off. The agent tapped the window sill with one manicured fingernail finger as he spoke. Behind his fake grin his eyes were bright, alert to any sign of interest.

‘The vendor might be persuaded to make a further reduction for a quick sale. It’s been on the market for a while, at a higher price. He’s only recently agreed to lower the asking price, so you’ve come along at just the right time. Once you’ve replaced the old windows with double glazed units, you’ll hardly hear the trains going by.’

He nodded, but he wasn’t really listening to the estate agent’s chatter as he stood gazing out of the back window. The railway ran along the end of the garden. Beyond a thin screen of birch trees, trains travelled in a cutting below the level of the garden.

‘You can’t hear the trains at all from the front of the house, and it’s a very quiet street, even during the day,’ the estate agent assured him.

The house was set back from the road, with a high privet hedge shielding the front yard.

‘It’s very quiet,’ the agent insisted, rubbing his white hands together and leaning forward, eager to close the sale. ‘Once you’ve fixed the windows and seen to the damp, all you need to do is change the wallpaper and put a lick of paint around the place and it’s going to look very nice indeed. You’ve got good sized rooms here. It’s a real bargain. You won’t find anything else this spacious at the price, not around here.’

He gave another nod to indicate he was listening.

‘A lot of people like to buy a place that needs a bit of attention,’ the agent continued, as though afraid the opportunity to sell the property would vanish the instant he stopped talking. ‘It means you can have it however you want.’

‘That’s true.’

He didn’t mention that he was in no hurry to decorate. Peeling wallpaper didn’t bother him. What attracted him was something very different: a garden that wasn’t overlooked from any direction. He waited a moment, telling the agent he wanted to hear a train go past the end of the garden. In reality, he wasn’t interested in how much noise the trains made, only in whether their windows travelled below the level of his fence. He had to be sure he couldn’t be seen by passengers rattling past.

The transaction was straightforward. He had already found a buyer for the house he had inherited from his parents. Moving in, he settled into his own private routine, content in his solitude. His demands were modest: to be left alone to pursue his hobby free from interference. Since he was a child he had listened to other people grumbling about their lot. Sometimes their complaints intrigued him. Mostly they amused him. The solution was so obvious. They just had to take whatever they wanted. He did.

Of course most people weren’t as clever as him, and he had been fortunate in having a mother who was easy to manipulate. His father had been more difficult. In the end the situation at home had become untenable. There couldn’t be two of them in charge. But there had been a solution. There always was. He had laid his plans carefully for a very long time, watching and waiting, until at last the chance had presented itself. He found things usually worked out that way for someone who had the guts to seize opportunities when they came along. He had discovered he had the requisite courage quite early on in his life. It still made him smile when he remembered it. Everyone had been very sympathetic towards his mother, and very kind to him. They had all believed the fall had been an accident. No one had suspected a ten-year-old boy had been responsible for his father’s death.

Over the years that followed he had honed his skill, so he knew what he was doing. The difficult part was to manage it without being caught. Once again, his patience served him well. He watched and waited until she was alone in her flat before slipping on his gloves and ringing the bell. His crude disguise of fake glasses, moustache and beard, were enough to mask his identity from the security cameras in her block. It was a simple matter to talk his way into her flat by convincing her he had been called to fix a dripping pipe because residents in the flat below had complained to the landlord that a leak was causing a damp patch on their ceiling.

‘No one said anything to us about it,’ the girl remonstrated.

He raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. ‘The landlord arranged it with your flatmate. It’s not my fault if she forgot to tell you. But your landlord’s going to hold you responsible for any further damage, if you refuse to let me in to fix it. It’s no skin off my nose.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘Let’s hope your floor doesn’t collapse.’

He almost smiled on seeing her worried frown. She believed every word of his story.

‘You’d better come in, then,’ she said.

He had come prepared, but he didn’t have to use his own weapon. The minute he walked into the kitchen he spotted a set of sharp knives on the worktop. A murder weapon that was already to hand would leave fewer clues for the police to follow up. As soon as she turned away he reached for the longest blade.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ she asked, turning back to face him.

Without answering, he raised his arm and struck her a powerful blow in the middle of her chest. He felt the blade slide in and stop as it hit bone. Her blue eyes widened in shock and her mouth gaped open ready to scream, as he drew the knife out. Blood soaked her sweatshirt, cascading on to the floor. Before she could make a sound, with one swift movement he sliced across her mouth. Blood dripped from a macabre semblance of a grin that split her face. She staggered back against the worktop. Lunging forward, he slashed at her chest repeatedly, hoping the police would infer she had been killed by someone in a jealous rage, someone who knew her. A strange gurgling issued from her bloody lips as she sank to the floor, her sweatshirt drenched with blood. While he stood watching, fascinated, he barely noticed the knife slide from his grasp, the handle slippery with blood.

Whipping off his gloves, he pulled on a clean pair and bundled the wet ones into a plastic bag inside his rucksack, along with his bloody mac and trainers. There was no point in washing any of them. Traces of her blood would remain in the garments, and cling to the pipes of whatever washing machine he used, and to the seams and internal fabric of his shoes. Nor would he attempt to destroy the telltale clothes. Every time he moved them he risked leaving a trail for the police to follow, instead of which they would stay in the plastic bag, safely locked away where no one would ever find them. Too many killers were caught because they attempted to destroy evidence. That was stupid, because forensic examination could detect microscopic traces of blood and DNA invisible outside of laboratory conditions. Far better to leave no clues.

Driving back to his lock-up garage, he started to plan his next outing.

2

Geraldine was doing her best to feel pleased about her relocation from the Metropolitan Police force in London to the Major Investigation Team in York. Much about her move had gone well. For a start, she had found a tenant for her flat in North London straight away, and so far she liked what she had seen of the city of York. But she still wasn’t sure if she had made the right choice. She had dithered briefly over whether to sell her London flat which would enable her to buy a small house in York, but she wasn’t ready to make that commitment. Everything had happened so fast. She had only seen pictures of her rented apartment online. On arrival, she had been surprised at how spacious it was. The two bedrooms were perfectly adequate, and the large living room had a balcony with a stunning view overlooking the River Ouse. But the place belonged to someone else. It wasn’t really her home.

After a week she was still finding it difficult to get used to her new bed. She had only just fallen asleep one night when her phone rang. Even though she was tired, force of habit quelled any temptation to ignore the call. She listened for a moment before climbing out of bed. After scrabbling frantically through her wardrobe to find something warm to wear, she set off. Although it had been a mild winter so far, the temperature in York in January was noticeably colder than in London. Freezing air hit her like a slap as she left the building. By the time she reached her destination, her car had barely warmed her up. Trying to control her shivering, she pulled on protective covering, and entered the house.

‘Her killer was angry,’ a scene of crime officer said when Geraldine had introduced herself.

‘What makes you say that?’

He shook his head, looking around the confined space.

‘Just because there’s a lot of blood doesn’t mean the attack was personal,’ Geraldine added. ‘He might be one of those sick people who enjoy carving people up.’

Her colleague’s brow lowered in a scowl. ‘That’s true,’ he admitted.

‘And the killer could be a woman. At this stage we need to keep open-minded about everything.’

‘But you have to admit it does look as if this was done by a man who was uncontrollably angry.’

‘Admittedly her attacker was powerful,’ Geraldine agreed.

‘Yes, and it was a frenzied attack.’

‘So you think she was killed by a man who was in a rage, and this was a crime of passion?’

‘You think because that’s a cliché it can’t be true,’ he replied.

She turned away from him to look at the body.

‘There’s a reason why things become clichés,’ he added. ‘It’s because they’re common, which means they’re likely to be true.’

Geraldine looked around the blood-spattered walls and floor. ‘I hope there’s nothing common about a scene like this.’

She turned to gaze at the dead girl’s bloody face. Her blue eyes were wide open, seemingly staring at the ceiling, her mouth stretched in a ghastly grin. Geraldine’s gaze travelled to her chest which was drenched in blood from multiple stab wounds. Another scene of crime officer approached holding up a large evidence bag, and Geraldine was surprised to see a bloodstained knife inside it. This scene seemed to be full of clichés.

‘You’ve got the weapon?’

The officer nodded. Above his mask his eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘So it would appear.’

Geraldine returned his smile. Having the murder weapon should speed up the search for the killer. She took a quick look at the knife in the bag.

‘The make is called Kitchen Devil,’ the scene of crime officer said. ‘There’s a set of them in the kitchen. One of them’s missing.’ He held the bag up. ‘It was lying on the floor beside the body where her assailant must have dropped it. The handle would have been slippery.’

Geraldine nodded. She had a similar set of knives in her own kitchen. With hard black plastic handles and sharp serrated blades they were useful, and very common. The murder weapon suggested the dead girl might have been the victim of a spontaneous attack, the killer seizing on whatever he could find, to assist him in his vicious attack. She knew she ought to resist drawing any conclusions from the scene, but she found it impossible not to try and piece together what must have happened.

‘She might have been killed by a random opportunist,’ she muttered tentatively, staring at the knife as though it could tell them who had used it to kill the girl.

She would have liked to stay longer at the scene, absorbing the setting and the atmosphere of the place while she waited to see what else the scene of crime officers might uncover, but she had to return to the police station in Fulford Road for a briefing. Leaving with what she thought would be plenty of time, she underestimated the volume of traffic around the centre of York and arrived with only minutes to spare. Dashing into the building from the car park, she found her colleagues already gathered in the major incident room. She had met a few of them since her arrival in York, but had only worked with one of them before. The detective chief inspector, Eileen Duncan, was probably not much older than Geraldine. Well built, with dark hair that was turning grey, she had a fierce look about her that Geraldine suspected might be an act to help her to maintain discipline. Briskly the detective chief inspector reviewed the facts so far.

The dead girl’s name was Stephanie Crawford. She had grown up in the village of Uppermill in Saddleworth in West Yorkshire, where she had lived with her parents until she had moved to York a few months before her death. She had worked in a bank, and had shared a flat in York with another girl from her home village. It was the dead girl’s flatmate, Ashley, who had found her body in the kitchen.

Ashley had been taken to the police station for questioning, leaving the flat cordoned off to minimise contamination. From what the constable looking after Ashley had said, it sounded as though she might be intending to return to her own family in Uppermill once the questioning was over. It must have been terrible, discovering her friend’s body in their blood-splattered kitchen. Geraldine couldn’t really imagine the shock she must have experienced. She was probably too traumatised to talk sensibly about what she had seen, but they had to speak to her and find out as much as they could before she went home to her family.

‘Anyone have any thoughts on all of this so far?’ Eileen asked in conclusion. ‘Have I missed anything?’

Geraldine raised the possibility that the attack had been unplanned, since the murder weapon had been in the kitchen already.

‘It’s far too early to go jumping to conclusions,’ a familiar voice responded. ‘The murder could have been planned by someone who was familiar with the kitchen and knew in advance that the knife would be there.’

Geraldine couldn’t help smiling at her former colleague, Ian Peterson, who had just spoken. She had chided him numerous times for jumping to conclusions, when he had been an eager young detective sergeant and she had been his detective inspector. Only now their roles were reversed: he was the inspector, and she was his sergeant. When the duty sergeant allocated their tasks, she was pleased and at the same time slightly nervous to see that she would be working with Ian. She wondered whether he had requested her presence on his team, and how easy it would be for her to adjust to him being her senior officer.

3

Ashley looked up as Ian and Geraldine entered the room. ‘It was completely out of the blue,’ she sobbed, before they had even greeted her, as though death arriving unexpectedly somehow intensified its finality. ‘She was the last person on earth to deserve this. I know Steph. We’ve been friends forever. We were at school together.’ She broke off again, and sniffed loudly. ‘She’s always been so kind. She would never have hurt anyone. Who could have done that to her?’

Ian introduced himself and Geraldine. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’

Ashley shook her head. ‘I came home and went in the kitchen, and she was just lying there. It was horrible.’ Shuddering, she dropped her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Geraldine gazed at her shaking shoulders. She only looked about twenty. The victim had probably been about the same age. It wasn’t entirely rational, but it always seemed more upsetting when murder victims were young. So many years of life had been snatched away from them. And for what? The suffering caused by this meaningless loss of life could never be assuaged.

‘Who could have done it?’ Ashley stammered. ‘Why did it happen? Why?’

Ian shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But we intend to find out.’ Leaning forward in his chair, he gazed intently at the distraught girl. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to talking?’

Ashley nodded. ‘I’ll do my best, if it’s going to help,’ she mumbled. ‘But there isn’t much I can tell you. I wasn’t there when it happened. I just came home and found her. Who did it? Why?’

‘We don’t know.’ Geraldine repeated what Ian had just said. ‘But we’re going to do everything we can to find out who did this. First of all, did anyone else have a key to your apartment, apart from you and your flatmate?’

‘No. Only us, and the man who owns the flat.’

The landlord was in Spain. He had already been questioned by local police. Shocked to hear that one of his tenants had been murdered on his property, he hadn’t been able to share any information that might assist the investigation.

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do this?’

Ashley shook her head.

‘Did she have a boyfriend in York?’

‘If she did, I didn’t know about it.’

‘You knew her before she came to York, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. We were at school together.’

She explained that she and her flatmate had moved to York only three months earlier. Geraldine and Ian already knew much of what she told them, but neither interrupted her. Geraldine wondered if Stephanie had been running away from someone. Three months might be enough time for a stalker to track her down.

‘What brought you to York?’ she asked.

‘Stephanie was moving here so I applied for a transfer to York, and came here with her. We got this two-bedroomed flat. It was supposed to be fun… we were going to have fun…’

‘What made her decide to come here?’

Ashley shrugged. Ian frowned as though Geraldine was posing the wrong questions, but she pressed on with her enquiry.

‘Is it possible she was trying to get away from someone?’

Ashley looked startled by the suggestion, but she just shook her head.

‘Can you think of anyone she knew before she came to York who might have wanted to harm her?’ Geraldine persisted.

Ashley shook her head. ‘No. She would have said. She did mention…’ she hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s probably nothing, but she did mention she had a violent boyfriend once, but that was a few years ago.’

‘What was his name?’

Ashley shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. She didn’t say. We were comparing notes, you know.’

‘We’re studying her phone and computer records,’ Ian said. ‘Would you recognise the name if you saw it? There might be a record of him somewhere.’

Ashley nodded. ‘I’ll try, but I don’t think she ever mentioned anything else about him. It was just a casual conversation, you know.’

It seemed there was nothing more she could tell them. Urging her to contact them if she thought of anything else, they left her with a constable. The only possible lead they had was that the victim might have had a violent ex-boyfriend at some time in the past. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.

Leaving the technical team to examine the dead girl’s laptop and smart phone, Ian and Geraldine sat down in Ian’s office to discuss the case before completing their decision logs. They both had the impression the attack had been personal. Certainly they hoped it had been. In a random assault, the killer might be more difficult to trace. Scene of crime officers were busy searching the apartment and the body was being examined by a pathologist. While they were waiting for more evidence, Ian wanted to speak to everyone who had been close to Stephanie. Her parents had been on holiday out of the country, but they had been contacted and were on their way back to England.

‘They were only in France,’ the borough intelligence officer told them, as though that made any real difference.

The years seemed to roll back as Geraldine found herself working on a murder case with Ian at her side once again.

‘At least we have the murder weapon,’ he said. ‘And we know where it came from.’

‘Which hasn’t helped us. In fact, it’s made things more difficult for us.’

‘How so? We know the forensic team have confirmed the killer was wearing gloves, and they’ve found no match for the partial DNA sample they were able to find on the knife, but that would be the same with any murder weapon, and at least this way we don’t have to spend time and resources searching for it.’ He smiled. ‘No time wasted lifting floorboards and digging up gardens.’

‘But knowing it was already there means we don’t know whether this was an unpremeditated attack by someone who was in the flat anyway, or an attack planned by someone who knew in advance that the set of knives was to hand in the kitchen, or a killer who turned up already armed and chose to use a knife that was there instead of the weapon he had brought with him.’ Geraldine tried to conceal her impatience, but she couldn’t help feeling that Ian was prioritising deployment of manpower over detection. ‘Come on, you’re not thinking about this, Ian. A weapon that was already there gives us no clues at all to the killer’s identity.’

Ian frowned. Accustomed to being the senior officer in their working relationship, Geraldine hoped she hadn’t been insolent. She needed to adapt to the fact that she was now Ian’s sergeant, and she needed to make that adjustment quickly. She wondered if it had crossed his mind that relations between them could become awkward, if they weren’t both careful. But he merely acknowledged her concerns with a nod and said nothing about her patronising tone.

He was keen to follow up the suggestion that the dead girl had once had a violent boyfriend. Having set a constable to look into the victim’s past contacts, he ordered Geraldine back to her desk to write up her decision log. She was slightly taken aback by his peremptory tone and tried to remember if she had been similarly imperious towards him when she had been his inspector. She thought she had done her best to treat him as an equal, but when he had worked as her sergeant she had been older and more experienced than him. Now that their roles were reversed, she remained older and more experienced. Perhaps he was feeling insecure. All she could do was bite her tongue and behave as though she had never worked with him before.

Before they left the police station at the end of the day, Ian asked Geraldine to be present when the dead girl’s parents identified the body the following morning. She was happy to agree. Although invariably painful, meeting bereaved family members sometimes revealed information about the victim’s life which could make the encounter useful. Having finalised the arrangements, she packed up her things and left, relieved to return to the quiet solitude of her new flat.

Looking around her living room, she liked the fact that she had not yet accumulated any clutter. She had abandoned her few ornaments when she had moved, determined to keep her new flat as orderly as possible. It was part of her resolution to leave her life in London behind her. The solitary photograph she had of her mother was hidden away in the drawer beside her bed, and the one frame containing pictures of Celia and her family was displayed in the living room mainly for their satisfaction should they visit. Other than those few pictures and a small collection of books, everything in the flat was as functional and impersonal as it had been on the day she had taken up residence there.

Having seen numerous homes crammed with possessions, she was still surprised by the quantity of junk other people hoarded.

‘Why do you keep all this?’ she had asked her sister, Celia, one day.

‘What?’

‘All this stuff.’

Genuinely curious, Geraldine had pointed to a wall of shelving filled with vases, photos, books, magazines, random teapots and decorative plates, ornamental bookends, half-finished knitting, fossils and shells presumably collected from various beaches, a plastic box that Chloe must have made at school, together with all sorts of other bric-a-brac. Visibly indignant, Celia had been quick to point out that everything Geraldine dismissed as rubbish in fact had significant sentimental value, from their mother’s favourite teapot, to Chloe’s discoveries and handiwork.

‘I couldn’t part with any of it,’ Celia had insisted.

Looking around her own sparsely furnished flat Geraldine felt pleased. She had the view through her window to look at; the river and sky were enough for her. She didn’t need anything else. But her gaze moved to the photograph of her sister and her niece, and her thoughts drifted to the picture of her dead mother, hidden away beside her bed. She sighed. She was no different to other people who hoarded memorabilia from their lives. It was just that she had spent most of her adult life focusing on dead strangers who left her no souvenirs.

4

People made such a fuss, as though it was something out of the ordinary, when in reality anyone with a modicum of sense must realise that murders were commonplace. It just suited the authorities to hush them up. Their puppets in the media were no better. Most of the population were happy to buy into the fiction that, by and large, criminals were caught and locked up. It made everyone feel safe, which was good for maintaining order and helped protect the status quo. He didn’t mind. He had no interest in exposing the truth. Far better to let people carry on believing the police had the situation under control. It meant people were less vigilant, and that made life much easier for him.

It didn’t take long for the police to turn up, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Men and women in uniform leapt out of their vehicles, scurried in and out of the house, stopped passersby, and put up a cordon across the street. From an upstairs window a few doors away across the road, he had a clear view of what was going on. The following day he would be gone. He had only been using the place for the weekend, watching and hoping for an opportunity to find his victim at home alone. The owners of the house he had broken into could be back at any time, but he was banking on them being away for the weekend. In the meantime he had been careful. He hadn’t removed his gloves, or touched anything in the place for fear of leaving a record of his presence. He had held his breath as he raced up the stairs and now stood by an open window, to minimise his breathing inside the house. Hopefully no one would ever discover he had been there, and the police would have no cause to search for a trace of the DNA he had inevitably left behind, in spite of his prudence.

The uniformed officers were irrelevant. He was only interested in the plain clothes detectives. They were the ones who would be hunting for him. A few of them had been and gone. Before he had time to slip away, a new investigating team appeared: a man and a woman, both tall; the man blond, the woman dark-haired. The man arrived first. Young, broad-shouldered, with a powerful physique, from across the road he looked more like a construction worker than a police officer as he marched up the path to the front door, exuding energy. The woman arrived shortly after him. From a distance her face looked pale and beautiful, but there was something daunting about her air of authority as she strode along the pavement and up the path to the front door. Clearly she was there on business. And what other business could take her into that house just hours after a young woman had been stabbed to death there? No doubt she was a police detective come to poke about at the scene of the crime, searching for clues.

He smiled as she disappeared through the front door. If she thought she was going to find anything that would lead her to the girl’s killer, she was going to be disappointed. Although it was true that many murderers killed to vent their feelings, not everyone was that stupid. Ordinary murderers were quickly apprehended because they lost control of their emotions and made mistakes. The cunning killers, the ones who got away with it, were the ones who plotted their actions deliberately and carefully, leaving nothing to chance. So far everything had gone according to plan, but it was important not to become complacent. The slightest slip could lead to discovery.

As long as the police were looking for him, he had to stay one step ahead of them. He wondered how much they knew. From his post along the road, he was able to see everyone who entered and left the house. There was a period of commotion, then the front door closed for a while. After the flurry of activity, he grew bored sitting in the window for hours with the lights off, watching and waiting, but his vigilance paid off because at last the front door opened and the two detectives emerged. The man went rapidly back to his car but this time the woman walked along the drive slowly, no longer in a hurry. When she reached the gate she lingered for a moment. It looked as though she was going to turn round and go back in the house. Appearing to make up her mind, she carried on through the gate, back towards her car. Dashing down the stairs, he barely had time to leap into the car he had hired before she turned the corner and disappeared. He put his foot down.

On the face of it, stalking a police detective was a dodgy strategy, crazy even. But in addition to superior intelligence, boldness was a characteristic ordinary killers lacked. As was patience, for that matter. Although his plan might involve many more hours of tedious watching and waiting, it would be worth it. If she was not on her way there already, eventually the dark-haired detective would go home. The more information he discovered about her, the easier it would be to find out how much the police knew about him. If his plan worked, she was going to end up helping to protect the very person she was trying to arrest for murder.

5

Geraldine would never have left London had the move not been forced on her. She had been confronted with a stark choice: accept a demotion and move to another police force, or resign. She had chosen to accept the offer to relocate. Although this was hardly her ideal career path, she had broken the law in an attempt to protect her twin sister, hoping to rescue her from a life of addiction. Given the choice, she would do the same again. She felt she had no choice. Helena was her twin sister, and Geraldine had promised her dying mother she would take care of her. So far Geraldine’s sacrifice appeared to have succeeded, and her sister had come through a rehabilitation programme. But Geraldine was aware that as a recovering user, her sister lived at constant risk of falling victim to her addiction again.

Now Geraldine was making the best of her new situation as a sergeant on a new team. The next morning she went to the police station to check in with Ian and attend a briefing.

‘Well?’ Eileen barked. ‘You were there, Ian. Bring us all up to speed. What was your impression of Stephanie’s flatmate?’

Ian cleared his throat. Geraldine was surprised to see he looked nervous. She had never noticed such hesitation in his demeanour when he had been working with her. They had always got on too well for that. Dismissing a flutter of anxiety, she hoped the same level of trust would develop between him and Eileen. Briefly Ian reported what he had discovered at the crime scene. He turned to Geraldine. She understood that he was waiting for her to comment but before she could start, a constable spoke.

‘I’ve questioned the next-door neighbours on both sides,’ she said.

Geraldine turned to look at the speaker. In her twenties, Detective Constable Naomi Arthur was blond and slender. Although they had only been briefly introduced, somehow Geraldine wasn’t surprised to hear Naomi speak out without being asked. Young enough to be Geraldine’s daughter, she displayed an air of forceful efficiency, and had already struck Geraldine as overtly confident. Ian didn’t interrupt Naomi, and Geraldine had to wait in silence until the constable had finished her report. Naomi was succinct and clearly bright. She would probably soon be promoted to sergeant. Doing her best to suppress her bitterness at herself being demoted to sergeant, Geraldine felt a flicker of resentment at the prospect of being the same rank as a colleague so much younger and less experienced than herself. But it couldn’t be helped. She had brought her disgrace on herself and had to put up with the consequences stoically.

After the briefing, Geraldine collected an unmarked police car and set off for the mortuary. Ian had told her only that the pathologist was pleasant and professional. Geraldine was happy to know very little about him. It would be easy to let Ian fill her in on everyone, but it was better to make up her own mind about the people she met. She found the hospital easily and made her way to the back entrance which led straight to the mortuary. A young blond woman let her in. Introducing herself as Avril, she led Geraldine along the corridor, chatting cheerfully.

‘Jonah’s not quite finished, but I’m sure he won’t mind you coming along to see the victim now. He’s very relaxed about things like that. He never objected to Ian coming along anyway, but everyone gets on well with Ian, don’t they? Will he be coming along later?’

Geraldine gave a non-committal grunt.

‘Don’t worry about the parents,’ Avril went on. ‘They haven’t arrived yet, but I’ll look after them until Jonah’s ready to let them view the body. She was quite young, you know, and I think she’d only been in York for a few months. Here we are.’

Geraldine drew her own conclusions about what Avril thought of Ian, as the young woman handed her a mask and pushed open the door. The forensic pathologist was humming to himself as Geraldine entered. He was a plump man in his forties, with ginger hair and pale freckled skin. When he glanced up, his blue eyes twinkled brightly at her above his pug nose.

‘No Ian?’ he greeted her.

Geraldine tried not to feel peeved that both Avril and the pathologist seemed disappointed to see her in place of her colleague.

‘No, he was busy, but he sends his greetings,’ she fibbed.

She knew that Ian avoided attending post mortems if he could. For a detective working on murder investigations he was surprisingly squeamish.

‘Oh well,’ the pathologist replied, smiling at her, ‘he wouldn’t have sent you along if you weren’t up to the job. Jonah Hetherington, at your service.’

His tone implied that although he was prepared to make do with Geraldine, he would have preferred to see Ian.

‘Geraldine Steel, Ian’s sergeant,’ she replied, stopping herself just in time from introducing herself as a detective inspector. ‘So,’ she went on, turning to the cadaver, ‘what have you got for us?’ There was a slight hiatus, as though she had spoken out of turn.

‘We’re looking at a young woman, barely out of her teens,’ he began.

‘She was twenty-two.’

‘Exactly. She had no physical problems as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, and had suffered no serious injuries before this.’

He pointed to the white chest, scored with several lacerations.

‘These are deep incisions,’ he said. ‘The murder weapon wasn’t razor sharp, so it didn’t slice easily through her chest. Whoever attacked her went at it with a will.’

‘Would you describe it as a frenzied attack?’ Geraldine asked, remembering her earlier conversation with Ian.

Jonah frowned. ‘That’s a very emotive word, and I’m afraid it’s not for me to draw any conclusions about the motivation driving the attack. The blows the killer struck were extremely powerful, but it’s impossible to say whether her attacker had been whipped up into a rage, or was just determined to make sure he killed her.’

‘Perhaps he was enjoying himself,’ Geraldine added.

Jonah threw her a curious glance before continuing. ‘Any one of those injuries might have proved fatal without immediate medical attention, and even if she’d been attended to without any delay at all, she might not have survived the trauma.’

‘How many times was she struck?’

‘Seven, possibly eight. It looks as though she was slashed twice in the same place,’ he added by way of explanation.

‘Can you tell us anything about the killer?’

Jonah looked surprised. ‘What do you mean? You can see what happened.’ He indicated the body. ‘She was stabbed to death.’

Geraldine paused. She was used to working with a pathologist in London who was happy to speculate, off the record, about the events at crime scenes. He would willingly share his theories about the physique and motivation of unknown killers. But it had taken time for Geraldine to convince him that she was discreet. Jonah had only just met her.

‘We found a scraping of skin under one of her finger nails,’ he went on. ‘It wasn’t hers.’

‘Are you sure?’ Geraldine asked with a rush of excitement. ‘How long had it been there?’

‘Since around the time of her death.’

‘And it definitely wasn’t hers?’

‘The DNA analysis shows it was a man but there’s no match on the database.’

Geraldine nodded, doing her best to hide her disappointment at the anonymity of the DNA sample.

‘Was there any evidence of sexual assault or any sexual activity at all shortly before she was killed?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Off the record, Jonah, can you give me anything else? I won’t tell anyone.’

Jonah raised his eyebrows, but he was grinning. ‘Off the record?’ he repeated. ‘You won’t even tell Ian?’

Geraldine hesitated. Until recently she had been a detective inspector. She would have been seriously vexed if her sergeant had kept anything from her. Now she was hinting at doing just that. As an inspector her request wouldn’t have been questioned. She bit her lip. She had to remember that she was now a detective sergeant, and needed to adapt her behaviour accordingly. Jonah winked at her, well aware that she was going to pass on to Ian any information she gleaned.

‘I used to work with Ian, when he was a sergeant,’ she said, hoping that her long relationship with Ian would inspire confidence in the pathologist.

There was no need to mention that she had once been Ian’s senior officer, and that their roles were now reversed. After she had been working in York for a while, and her colleagues knew her, she wouldn’t care so much if they found out what had happened. But for now she preferred to keep her recent history to herself. First impressions were difficult to shake off. She didn’t want to start out with everyone knowing she had been demoted.

‘The fact that we can analyse the DNA is good news,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Yes, we should be able to learn something about the killer, even if we can’t come up with a name. And look here.’ Shining a bright light on the victim’s face, he pointed to her cheeks on either side of her lips. A wound across the victim’s mouth had been neatly concealed. ‘We’ve patched her face up for the viewing.’

Geraldine nodded. The injuries to the victim’s chest could remain hidden beneath the covers, but her parents would have to see her face to confirm her identity.

‘She looked ghastly when she came in, enough to give anyone nightmares, and certainly not in a fit state for her parents to see her.’

Geraldine praised his handiwork.

‘With any luck, they won’t notice it,’ Jonah said. ‘She wasn’t a pretty sight.’

‘How did it happen?’ Geraldine asked.

He shrugged. ‘Our kindly killer slashed her across the mouth, while she was still alive and breathing. God only knows why.’

Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened and Avril came in to inform them that the victim’s parents had arrived.

Jonah nodded. ‘She’s almost ready. Give me five minutes.’

‘Right,’ Avril smiled as she withdrew.

Geraldine wondered how they could remain so cheerful knowing a bereaved couple were in the next room, waiting to see their dead daughter. She always found the living more painful to deal with than the dead. At least they were at peace.

‘After life’s fitful fever she sleeps well,’ she muttered.

‘What’s that?’ Jonah asked.

‘Nothing. Just something I remember from school.’

‘Macbeth.’

Geraldine was surprised he recognised the quotation, but before she could respond he turned away. ‘Time to get her ready.’

6

Removing her mask, Geraldine followed Avril along the corridor and through a door marked ‘Mortuary – Visitor Suite’. The room was delicately scented, with a few anodyne watercolours hanging on the walls and a vase of flowers on one of the tables. There was a drinks machine, and several boxes of tissues placed within reach of all the chairs. Everything had been thoughtfully arranged to support visitors’ needs. But none of it offered much comfort to the people who came and sat there.

The victim’s parents were younger than Geraldine had expected. Mrs Crawford was small and plump; her husband was tall and thin. They must have been very young when their daughter was born, because they couldn’t have been older than their mid-forties now. Both of them were very pale. They were standing motionless, side by side, staring at the floor, ignoring the sofa and armchairs in the room.

‘Mr and Mrs Crawford?’ The door swung closed behind her. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel. Can we sit down? I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Mr Crawford stirred. Reaching out to grasp his wife’s hand, he stared at the wall behind Geraldine’s head.

‘You don’t know it’s her yet, do you?’

Geraldine hesitated. ‘We need you to identify her.’

She didn’t say what they all knew, that this was just a formality. Ashley had found her dead friend in their shared kitchen.

‘She’ll be ready for you in a few minutes,’ she added.

‘But you don’t know it’s our daughter in there, do you? All you know is that a girl was killed in her flat. It could be anyone,’ Mr Crawford insisted.

His eyes were bright with repressed desperation. Geraldine didn’t answer.

‘Do we have to go in there?’ Mrs Crawford asked. ‘I’m not sure… I don’t think I can…’

Her husband pushed his shoulders back and straightened his back. Then he looked directly at Geraldine.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘We need to know.’

‘Don’t leave me alone here,’ Mrs Crawford stammered.

‘Avril will stay with you,’ Geraldine reassured her.

Leaving the distraught mother behind, Geraldine led Mr Crawford along the hushed corridor to view the body. Steeling herself to witness his grief, she was relieved when he merely nodded his head, too shocked to speak. His face remained fixed in an impassive glare. Only his eyes burned with unspoken grief.

‘That’s her,’ he whispered at last, choking on the words. ‘That’s our Stephanie.’

In place of pity, Geraldine felt only an overwhelming relief that the wound on his daughter’s face was no longer visible. Without a word she led him back to the visitors’ lounge. His wife took one look at his face and broke down in tears.

‘No, no,’ she wailed, dropping her face in her hands and sobbing.

‘I know this is difficult for you,’ Geraldine said, ‘but I need to ask you a few questions about Stephanie. We can do this now, or I can come and see you tomorrow.’

Mr Crawford put his arm around his wife. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t talk right now. Please…’ his voice broke.

Turning away, he buried his face in his wife’s shoulder. After glancing helplessly at Avril, Geraldine withdrew.

The following morning, Eileen held a brief meeting to review the investigation so far. The main topic of discussion was the DNA that had been discovered on the body. Even without a positive identification, the sample of skin could reveal a lot about Stephanie’s attacker. Establishing the gender and ethnicity of the killer could help to eliminate suspects, when they had any, and with luck they would be able to positively identify her attacker.

After the meeting, Geraldine drove out to see Stephanie’s parents in their home. The area of Saddleworth in the West Riding of Yorkshire was over an hour’s drive from York through rugged countryside. It was an invigorating journey, all the more enjoyable because she was pleased to leave the confines of the police station in Fulford Road. It was early days, but so far working as a sergeant in York felt very different to being an inspector in London. She wasn’t sure that anyone but Ian and Eileen knew that she had been demoted. No one appeared curious about her move out of London, but she felt compelled to stay on her guard at work. Probably no one would care, or even notice, if she addressed a fellow sergeant as though she was their superior officer, but it would be all too easy for her to gain a reputation for being haughty, if she wasn’t careful. She had to keep reminding herself that she was no longer an inspector.

Uppermill was an attractive village of soft yellowish York stone nestling in a valley, the houses and shops dominated by a tall church steeple. A canal ran parallel to the main thoroughfare, set back from it. Passing a pub, Geraldine left the High Street and drove up a narrow road with cars parked on both sides. Reaching a Victorian civic hall, she turned right and stopped outside a row of terraced houses where the dead girl’s parents lived.

Mrs Crawford answered the door looking drawn, and so pale that the resemblance to her dead daughter was uncanny.

‘The paper reported she was stabbed several times,’ Mrs Crawford said dully as soon as Geraldine sat down in the front room.

‘She would have been killed by the first blow.’ Geraldine feigned a confidence she didn’t feel. It could have been true. ‘She wouldn’t have suffered.’

Mr Crawford entered in time to hear Geraldine’s comment. ‘I thought it took four minutes for a person to die,’ he said, his face twisted in a sour expression.

‘But she would have lost consciousness straight away,’ Geraldine countered, as firmly as she could.

Desperately sorry for them both, she had no wish to be insensitive. Nevertheless, she had travelled a long way to speak to them and didn’t want to leave there without answers to her questions. Instead of sitting down, Mrs Crawford went off to the kitchen to make tea. Geraldine suspected she wanted to avoid having to talk about what had happened.

‘It’s hit her very hard,’ Mr Crawford muttered when his wife was out of the room.

It was hardly surprising.

Geraldine reiterated her condolences. ‘I can’t express my sympathy strongly enough, but at the same time we do need to find out who did this,’ she said gently. ‘We all want to see justice done for the sake of your daughter’s memory. And until we have her killer behind bars, there’s a chance he might attack another young woman. So we need to find him urgently.’

‘You said he?’

‘We don’t know who did this. But we intend to find out.’

Mrs Crawford returned. She sat down, and began weeping silently. Mr Crawford was better able to control his emotions, although Geraldine could tell he had been crying earlier.

‘We’ll do anything we can do to help you find out who did this, won’t we, Wendy?’

Unable to speak, his wife nodded her head.

‘I understand you have a son?’ Geraldine asked.

‘Yes. But he’s not in,’ Mr Crawford replied. ‘He’s not often here.’

‘He spends a lot of time rehearsing,’ his wife explained, stifling her sobs and smiling faintly. ‘He’s in a band with some of his friends from school. A rock band.’

‘I might have to come back and speak to him.’ Seeing Mr and Mrs Crawford exchange a worried glance, Geraldine continued, ‘Is that a problem?’

Mr Crawford shook his head. ‘Not at all.’

‘It’s just that he’s – he’s difficult,’ his wife said. ‘He’s twenty,’ she added as though that were sufficient explanation of her son’s conduct.

‘Did he and Stephanie get on well?’ Geraldine asked.

There was an awkward pause, before Mr Crawford assured her his children had got on ‘well enough’.

Despite their assurances that they wanted to help, the Crawfords had little to add to what Geraldine already knew about their daughter. She moved on to the subject of Stephanie’s ex-boyfriends.

‘Her flatmate, Ashley, mentioned that she had a boyfriend who was violent?’