Cold Sacrifice E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DS Ian Peterson Murder Investigation
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 464

Beschreibung

The First DS Ian Peterson Murder Investigation When Henry's wife is stabbed to death, he pays a prostitute to give him an alibi. Her body is discovered, strangled, and the police realise they are dealing with a serial killer who will stop at nothing to cover his tracks. While they are hunting for evidence, another prostitute is brutally murdered. On the track of a vicious killer, Ian doesn't realise he is risking the life of his young colleague, Polly. Already established as a popular character in his own right, Ian Peterson appears in a supporting role in the first three Geraldine Steel novels. Cold Sacrifice is the start of his own career as protagonist in a brand new detective series.

Leseprobe

Leigh Russell studied at the University of Kent, gaining a Masters degree in English. A secondary school English teacher, and guest university lecturer in creative writing, she is married, has two daughters, and lives in North West London. Her first novel, shortlisted for the CWA best first novel award, Cut Short, was published in 2009. This was followed by Road Closed in 2010, Dead End in 2011, Death Bed in 2012 and Stop Dead in 2013.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORSTOP DEAD

‘All the things a mystery should be, intriguing, enthralling, tense and utterly absorbing’ – Best Crime Books

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

‘A definite must read for crime thriller fans everywhere – 5 stars’ – Eileen Thornton, Newbooks Magazine

‘For lovers of crime fiction this is a brilliant, not to be missed, novel’ – Helen M Hunt,Fiction is Stranger than Fact

‘Geraldine Steel sticks out as a believable copper and Stop Dead flows easily’ – Nick Triplow, Electric Lullaby

‘a well written, a well-researched, and a well-constructed whodunit. Highly recommended’ – Linda Regan,Mystery People

‘a whodunit of the highest order. The tightly written plot kept me guessing all the way’– Graham Smith,Crimesquad

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORDEATH BED

‘Earlier books have marked her out as one of the most able practitioners in the current field’ – Barry Forshaw, Crime Time

‘Death Bed is a marvellous entry in this highly acclaimed series’ – Promoting Crime Fiction

‘An innovative and refreshing take on the psychological thriller’ – Books Plus Food

‘Russell’s strength as a writer is her ability to portray believable characters’ – Crimesquad

‘A well written, well plotted crime novel with fantastic pace and lots of intrigue’ – Bookersatz

‘Truly a great crime thriller’ – Nayu’s Reading Corner

‘DEATH BED is her most exciting and well-written to date. And, as the others are superb, that is really saying something! 5*’ – Eurocrime

‘The story itself was as usual a good one, and the descriptive gruesomeness of some scenes was brilliant’ –Best Crime Books

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORDEAD END

‘All the ingredients combine to make a tense, clever police whodunnit’ – Marcel Berlins, The Times

‘I could not put this book down’ – Newbooks Magazine

‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’ – Jeffery Deaver

‘An encounter that will take readers into the darkest recesses of the human psyche’ – Barry Forshaw, Crime Time

‘Well written and chock full of surprises, this hard-hitting, edge-of-the seat instalment is yet another treat… Geraldine Steel looks set to become a household name. Highly recommended’ – Eurocrime

‘Good, old-fashioned, heart-hammering police thriller…a no-frills delivery of pure excitement’ – SAGA Magazine

‘the critical acclaim heaped on Russell thus far in her literary career is well deserved’ – bookgeeks.co.uk

‘a macabre read, full of enthralling characters and gruesome details which kept me glued from first page to last’ – www.crimesquad.com

‘cleverly thought out, gripping and convincing… I couldn’t put this book down… can’t wait for the next Geraldine Steel story to come out’ – bookersatz.blogspot.com

‘a series that can rival other major crime writers out there… can’t wait for the next one!’ – Best Books to Read

‘Dead End was selected as a Best Fiction Book of 2012’ – The Miami Examiner

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORROAD CLOSED

‘A well-written, soundly plotted, psychologically acute story’ – Marcel Berlins, The Times

‘Well-written and absorbing right from the get-go… with an exhilarating climax that you don’t see coming’ – Eurocrime

‘Leigh Russell does a good job of keeping her readers guessing. She also uses a deft hand developing her characters, especially the low-lifes… a good read’ – San Francisco Book Review

‘perfect character building… cleverly written… can’t wait for the next one’–bestbookstoread.co.uk

‘New star of crime fiction, Leigh Russell’s chilling psychological thriller is terrific and terrifying!’ – Clem Chambers

‘Road Closed is a gripping, fast-paced read, pulling you in from the very first tense page and keeping you captivated right to the end with its refreshingly compelling and original narrative’ – New York Journal of Books

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORCUT SHORT

‘Cut Short is a stylish, top-of-the-line crime tale, a seamless blending of psychological sophistication and gritty police procedure. And you’re just plain going to love DI Geraldine Steel’ – Jeffery Deaver

‘Russell paints a careful and intriguing portrait of a small British community while developing a compassionate and complex heroine who’s sure to win fans’ – Publishers Weekly

‘an excellent debut’ – Mark Campbell, Crime Time

‘It’s an easy read with the strength of the story at its core… If you want to be swept along with the story above all else, Cut Short is certainly a novel for you’ – crimeficreader, itsacrime.typepad.com

‘Simply awesome! This debut novel by Leigh Russell will take your breath away’ – Eurocrime

‘an excellent book…Truly a great start for new mystery author Leigh Russell’ – New York Journal of Books

Cut Short is a book I had to read in one sitting… excellent new series’ – Murder by Type

‘a surefire hit – a taut, slick, easy to read thriller’ – Watford Observer

‘fine police procedural, with a convincing if disconcerting feel of contemporary Britain’ – The Compulsive Reader

‘Cut Short featured in one of Eurocrime’s reviewers’ Top Reads for 2009’ – Eurocrime

‘Cut Short is not a comfortable read, but it is a compelling and important one. Highly recommended’ – Mystery Women

‘well written debut psychological thriller’ – stopyourekillingme.com

‘gritty and totally addictive debut novel’ – New York Journal of Books

‘If you’re a real fan of police procedurals, you’ll probably enjoy this read’ – Sacramento Book Review

‘I found Cut Short to be a fantastic read, taking me only days to finish. I thought it to be well-written and well-paced, with a fresh batch of intriguing characters to go along with a fresh tight plot’ – Dance on Fire

‘An excellent story, skilfully built and well told’ – www.thebookbag.co.uk

‘Intelligently written, gripping crime fiction’ – Bookersatz

‘I look forward to the second book in the series’ – Nayu’s Reading Corner

‘A very excellent book!’ – The Book Buff Blog

‘A wonderful series’ – clarissadraper.blogspot.com

‘Difficult to put down’ – The Secret Writer

Dedication to Michael, Jo, Phillipa and Phil

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his medical advice, all my contacts on the police force for their generosity with their time, Zoe Crosby at the Premier Inn Herne Bay for sharing her local knowledge, my editor Keshini Naidoo for her unerring judgement, Alan Forster for his cover design, Ion Mills, Annette Crossland, Claire Watts, Jem Cook, Alexandra Bolton and all the team at No Exit Press for their support and expertise, and 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 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)

1

A FLASH OF MOONLIGHT touched her hair with silver as she scurried along the street into town. It wasn’t safe to go back yet. She had to allow time for his temper to subside. Another half hour should do it. After walking fast for about fifteen minutes, she was more than a mile from home. The night air was chilly on her face, the side streets peaceful. There was no one around to see that she had been crying. Once, she thought she heard footsteps behind her. Fearful he had followed her she looked round, but the street was deserted. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her woolly jacket, she hurried on.

‘What are you saying?’ he had asked, so softly she had failed to notice the warning signs.

Too late, she had registered the heightened colour of his face. Apologies were no use once rage took hold of him. She had stared, mesmerised by the spittle on his lips as he shouted obscenities at her.

‘It’s only a hoover,’ she had whispered when he quietened down. ‘We can get another one –’

As soon as the words left her mouth she had realised her mistake, but his anger made her panic so she couldn’t think clearly.

‘Only a hoover? So I’ll just go and buy another one, shall I?’ He had leaned forward until he was so close she could feel the soft spray of his saliva on her face. ‘Do you think we’re made of money?’

‘No. No.’

This had nothing to do with money.

It was pointless to protest once he lost control like that. All she could do was protect herself until she was able to escape. Reaching the deserted Memorial Park she stumbled along the path towards the pond. In the darkness she found a bench, and sat down facing the water. It was still February, too cold to stay there for long. She was about to stand up when something struck her on the back of her head. Soundlessly she slumped forward and keeled over sideways on the hard seat. For a moment she lay quite still, stunned. Whimpering quietly she twisted her head round until she was looking straight up, blinking, struggling to make sense of her situation. She remembered her husband’s fury, his eyes bulging with the effort of shouting at her. Now she was lying on a hard surface in darkness with a pounding headache, and the sour taste of vomit in her throat. She had no idea where she was.

In the darkness a blurred moon hovered far away, while close up a face shifted in and out of focus. Her terror slipped away.

‘Thank God you’ve come.’

She reached out to touch him, but his features dissolved like a reflection in water.

‘Help me.’

As he raised his arm, moonlight glittered on the blade he was clutching.

2

IAN PETERSON TIDIED UP his desk, checked the time, and set off for the car park at a trot. He had hoped that Bev would be more relaxed about his work relationships now they were married, but two months had passed since the wedding and she had become, if anything, more carping and suspicious than before. If he was home late, she was bound to kick off. It was driving him nuts. A detective sergeant in his mid-thirties, successful in a career he loved, he was reduced to an apologetic coward by one sharp word from his wife. They had been together, on and off, since they had met at school. He hadn’t been alone in his infatuation. All the boys in his year had fancied her. His teenage crush had developed into a serious attachment when they started dating. After they left school he had driven long distances to spend time with her whenever he could. It was thanks to his determination that they had stayed together.

The first time he had asked her to live with him, Bev had refused outright to move away from Kent.

‘All my family are here, and my friends. And there’s my job. I know you think your work is so important, but I happen to value my job too.’

When he had joined the Kent constabulary and she had finally agreed to move in with him, he had been blissfully happy. For a few years they had lived together harmoniously but somehow, since the wedding, Bev had changed. She complained more and more about the long hours he worked.

‘You knew about my job when you agreed to marry me,’ he had protested more than once. ‘Working on murder investigations isn’t a nine-to-five job. If I’m on a case, I can’t drop everything just because you’re expecting me home.’

‘So I’m supposed to wait here by myself while you hang around in the pub until all hours –’

‘What are you talking about? When I’m not here, I’m working. Whatever gave you the idea I was out drinking to all hours?’

‘I don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t tell me anything. I never know where you are, or who you’re with, do I?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘So now I’m stupid.’

It baffled Ian that someone as beautiful as Bev could be so insecure. He did his best to reassure her, but it was wearing.

‘You know I love you.’

‘So you say.’

‘I married you, didn’t I?’

‘Well, thanks for doing me a favour. How kind of you, taking pity on me –’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

‘So I’m ridiculous as well as stupid.’

He just couldn’t win. Sometimes he wondered if he’d made a mistake. ‘Marry the girl,’ his father had advised him. It had worked well for the previous generation, but the world had been a different place when his parents were young. He had hoped to encounter a security like his parents enjoyed in marriage, but now he wondered if Bev would ever really feel settled with him. Looking back, he wondered if they had ever been happy, after the initial excitement of the relationship had worn off. He felt as though he had always been hanging on, waiting for the good times to come.

Before the wedding they had lived about two miles away from the police station. Bev had insisted on moving. The property they were buying was a stretch, even on their joint salaries, although the area was certainly pleasant.

‘I want to feel safe coming home after dark on my own,’ she had told him. ‘It’s not as if you’re always around in the evenings. I never know when you’re going to be called away unexpectedly, and I can’t rely on knowing when you’ll be home. You know I don’t like being on my own in the house at night.’

Ian had caved in, even though the move meant he spent at least an hour a day driving in to work and back.

This evening the traffic was light and he was home relatively early. Even so, Bev’s car was already in the drive and lights were on in the house. He hoped she would be in a good mood with him. Constantly worrying about his wife’s moods wasn’t how he had envisaged married life. Sometimes he arrived home to find her in tears, for no apparent reason. He tried to find out if she was depressed or just unhappy. Either way, he was prepared to do anything in his power to help her, but she clammed up when he asked her about it. He hated the fact that she wouldn’t confide in him, but he couldn’t force her to talk. When he pressed her, she would snap at him.

‘You’re not at work now. I’m not one of your suspects.’

Steeling himself, he went inside and found her busy in the kitchen. Her short blonde hair looked shiny and neat, and she was wearing make-up. She turned to him with a welcoming smile. With a pang, he recalled how loving she had been in the early days in their relationship. Always an optimist, he dared to hope they had come through a rocky patch. Moving house and organising a wedding, not to mention making a lifelong commitment to another person, was bound to be stressful. She had probably needed time to adjust to her new life as the wife of a detective.

‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ she smiled.

‘It smells great,’ he said, wary of upsetting her.

‘You look tired.’

‘I’m knackered.’

‘Go and sit down and I’ll pour you a drink. There’s some beers in the fridge.’

Ian went into the lounge and pulled off his tie. He leaned back in an armchair, stretched out his long legs, and ran a hand over his light brown hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

When they had finished eating, Bev came and sat beside him on the sofa to finish her glass of wine before clearing up in the kitchen. She often complained that he never talked to her about his work, so he decided to try and explain his passion for his job, although he hardly understood it himself.

‘I’ve never told anyone this before, but when I was a kid I wanted to be Superman.’

‘You wanted to be Superman?’ she repeated, laughing, ‘so you could fly around in a cape with your underpants over your trousers?’

‘No. I’m being serious. He was my hero because he was always fighting injustice, and that’s what I wanted to do. What I still want to do. I know one person can’t really make a difference, but there are so many wrongs in the world, I just feel I have to do what I can.’

He didn’t go on to say he had dedicated his life to the pursuit of justice, for fear she would sulk. She would have liked him to dedicate his life to her alone.

Instead, he launched into a description of his new detective inspector. Tall, thin and grey-haired, Rob Wellbeck looked older than his forty years.

‘He acts it too. I mean, he’s a decent enough bloke, but he’s so serious, all the time. If he’s got a sense of humour, he hides it up his arse crack when he comes into work. I know you think I’m obsessed with my job but he’s far worse than me, honestly.’

Bev chuckled, but there was an edge to her voice. ‘Worse than you? You’re pulling my leg! Please tell me he’s not married.’

‘He is.’

‘His poor wife!’

Uneasily, Ian joined in her laughter.

3

THE FRONT DOOR SLAMMED behind him and Mark ran into the living room. His long dark fringe flopped over eyes that flicked rapidly round the room. His father was lying stretched out on the sofa.

‘Where’s mum?’

His father merely grunted without raising his head.

The young man dropped his jacket on the floor and flung himself down on an armchair. Long and loose-limbed, he took after his father. The chair was well padded, with a matching footstool, but he fidgeted uncomfortably.

‘What are you watching?’

Henry stared at the television without answering.

‘What did you have for supper?’

Mark glared at his father sprawled along the length of the sofa, eyes fixed on the screen. He paid no attention to his son’s petulant expression, if he even noticed it.

‘Dad, where’s mum?’

‘I don’t know.’

Mark scowled at the screen. Holding onto the remote control, his father was watching a gardening programme he had recorded earlier in the week. It was too much hassle to try and persuade him to change channel. Mark was stuck watching some dreary old bloke drivelling on about compost. It was so unfair. He was eighteen. It wasn’t as though his parents didn’t have enough money to help him to buy a place of his own. His father might not earn very much, but his mother was a seriously wealthy woman. Yet however much Mark had nagged her to cough up for a deposit, she had flatly refused.

‘Why would you want to go and live all by yourself? You’re only just out of school. You might want to go to university next year –’

‘I’m not going to university. I’ll get a job – when I have my own bills to pay. There’s no point in my hanging around, living here with you forever.’

‘Well, you’re too young to live on your own, and in any case, the house is big enough for us all.’

‘Far too big. What do you need such a massive house for? You could sell it and have enough to get yourselves a really nice modern place.’ And have enough money left over to buy him a flat of his own.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

His father didn’t stir. He looked half asleep. Mark swore under his breath. He knew perfectly well what had happened. He couldn’t help overhearing their constant arguments. It was just one of the reasons he was so desperate to get a place of his own. They were at it all the time, his father yelling, his mother crying. Afterwards he would see his mother creeping around the house, her head turned to one side in a pointless attempt to hide her inflamed red eyes. Over the years he had become hardened to the sounds of their fighting, and the frustration of being powerless to intervene. Although his father was the aggressor, his mother wasn’t blameless. In its own way her passivity was provocative. There were times when he wanted to slap some sense into her himself. He had given up trying to understand why she put up with it.

When he was thirteen he had challenged her about it.

‘Why don’t you stand up to him?’ he had demanded.

At first she had pretended not to understand what he meant. It was impossible to believe she was stupid enough to think he didn’t know what was happening right under his nose.

‘You don’t have to put on a show with me. I know dad shouts at you all the time.’

‘What are you talking about? That’s a wicked thing to say. Your father is a kind and considerate man, and you should treat him with more respect.’

‘For God’s sake, mum, the whole bloody street can hear him.’

If he hadn’t felt so sad about it he would have been tempted to laugh at her for defending his father’s tantrums. It was ridiculous.

‘He doesn’t mean to upset anyone,’ she had insisted. ‘You don’t understand. He can’t help himself. Now, I don’t want to talk about it again.’

In spite of her rebuff, he had tried again a couple of weeks later, in the aftermath of another fight. He not only came up against the same blank refusal to acknowledge the truth, but this time she had been angry with him which was grossly unfair. He had only wanted to help her. She had threatened to send him to his room if he brought the subject up again, and something inside him had just given up. He wondered if she actually liked being abused. After that he had resolved to ignore it when his father raised his voice against her – and sometimes his hand. If his mother was prepared to put up with it, then it served her right. There was nothing Mark could do about it however desperate he was to help her. He had tried.

He hadn’t raised the subject again until he was seventeen, when he had asked her directly why she didn’t leave his father.

‘Leave him?’ she had repeated, as though he had been speaking to her in a foreign language. ‘He’s my husband.’

‘He’ll kill you if you let him carry on treating you the way he does.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘But you can’t be happy with him. Why don’t you get a divorce? You’ve certainly got grounds –’

She had been genuinely shocked.

‘Just because I don’t go to church regularly doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong.’

When he was small, he used to accompany her to church every week. Confession had been important to her, but he hadn’t minded when his father had arbitrarily put a stop to the weekly outing.

‘No son of mine is going to be indoctrinated with all that claptrap.’

And that was that. She hadn’t protested, even though he had heard her crying a lot. That was when he had begun to despise her, although he felt sorry for her at the same time. As a child he had found it very confusing. Now he was eighteen, and an adult, he still couldn’t understand why she stayed with his father.

It was growing late and his mother still hadn’t come home. His father was glued to another anodyne television programme.

‘Where did mum go?’

No answer.

‘When’s she coming home?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

Mark was starving. He couldn’t go all night without anything to eat.

‘I’m going out to get something before the takeaway closes,’ he announced, leaping to his feet. ‘Do you want anything?’

Half an hour later he was back home, scoffing sausage and chips in front of the television with his father.

‘I said no vinegar,’ Henry grumbled.

Mark took no notice. Instead he asked again where his mother was.

‘Do you think she’s all right?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think something’s happened to her?’

‘Stop yapping, will you? I’m trying to listen.’

‘But –’

‘She’ll come home when she’s ready. Now shut up about your bloody mother, will you, I’m trying to listen to the news.’

4

WHEN BEN’S MOTHER SENT him out for chips, it placed him in a quandary. He could make up an excuse to get out of it, only then she might drop the idea altogether. If she decided to go out herself, she was unlikely to bring anything back for him, and he was starving. But it was risky, going out alone in the dark. He might be mugged before he even reached the chippy, if he was spotted by a gang from one of the other blocks of flats. Then he would have to tell his mother he’d lost the money and Eddy would thrash him.

‘Do you think we’re made of money, you little shit?’ Eddy would shout as he thumped him.

Eddy’s readiness with his fists was just one of many reasons why Ben hated him. His mother had been off her trolley when she had agreed to let him move in. As soon as Ben was sixteen, he was out of there. He was going to make a life for himself, and he would never see either of them again. Meanwhile, his mother was standing in front of him holding out a fiver. He took it.

More often than not he was lucky and didn’t see the other kids. When they were hanging around the estate, he could still get away if he kept his ears and eyes open. He had given up trying to fight back. He was wiry and light, and his fists were quick, but there was no weight behind his punches. Besides, there were three of them, sometimes four, and they were older than him. Once they set on him there was nothing to do but protect himself as best he could, and run like hell at the first opportunity. This evening, he made it to the chip shop without any bother and was soon on his way home, clutching a hot newspaper parcel. He swore and yanked up his hood as a fine rain began to fall. He considered making a dash for it but preferred to take his time. That way he could stuff himself with more than his fair share on the way. Steam from the chips mixed with a sharp smell of vinegar as he fumbled inside the newspaper.

With his hood up, rustling the paper and munching, he didn’t hear them coming. The first he knew of their arrival was when one of them snatched at his chips. Desperately he grabbed for the package which landed on the ground with a soft thud. A few chips spilled out over the glistening pavement. Dismay at losing his dinner was overshadowed by fear of what Eddy would do. He could feel his muscles tensing at the prospect. But the immediate problem was right in his face. A gang that had mugged him before was blocking his way, taunting him and elbowing one another in their eagerness to terrorise him. The ringleader demanded he hand over his money.

Avoiding looking directly at them, he tried to keep his voice steady as he explained that he didn’t have any cash on him, only chips. He pointed to the newspaper packet at his feet.

‘That’s all I got. My mum only gave me a fiver. I haven’t got any more.’

He hated himself for sounding as though he was going to cry.

‘My mummy gave it to me,’ one of them sneered and the other three laughed.

A boy stooped down and picked up the packet. In the dim light from the street lamp his mates gathered round, shoving and grasping. Ben seized his chance and fled. He turned off the road along a path between a car showroom and forecourt. With any luck his tormentors would be content to stuff themselves, and wouldn’t bother pursuing him.

Heart thumping, he dashed across the road and into the park where he crouched down behind a low hedge, listening. There was no sound of footsteps or voices in pursuit. They had lost interest in him. Warily he straightened up, eyes straining to see through the thick darkness of the night. It was almost pitch black in the park, only the faint glow from the moon falling on trees and grass. He shivered, alone in the cold, wondering whether he should make his way home and own up to Eddy that he’d been mugged. He wished he had let the gang rough him up a bit. That way, Eddy might have left him alone. The other kids liked to kick out a bit, but with Eddy the beating was systematic while his mother just looked away, stony faced, probably relieved she wasn’t on the receiving end of Eddy’s fists. He was sorry he had taken her money in the first place. He had only managed to scoff a couple of the chips before they had been knocked out of his hand, and he had lost his appetite now anyway. He would have been better off staying at home, waiting for the hunger to pass.

Right now he was in no hurry to leave the safety of his hiding place. No one would notice if he didn’t go home until the morning, by which time his mother would have forgotten all about her rotten chips. Meanwhile, the gang hadn’t followed him round the block. He decided to make himself comfortable and stay there for a while. Sitting down on the soft earth he leaned back against the trunk of a tree which afforded him some shelter from the rain, pulled his knees up to his chin, and waited. When he was sure he had been there long enough for the other kids to have moved on, he scrambled to his feet. Standing upright, he stretched and yawned. He ought to go home but he was starving again. There had been several portions of chips wrapped in the newspaper he’d dropped. There was a slim chance the gang hadn’t found them all. Instead of going the long way round the block back home, he retraced his footsteps warily to see if they had left any of the packets lying on the ground. Cold soggy chips would be better than nothing.

Trotting back to the road, he listened out and glanced around every few steps to make sure he was alone. There was no sign of the other kids, and no newspaper parcel lying on the pavement. At last his vigilance was rewarded when he caught sight of something lying in the kerb. He scrambled over to it, but his groping fingers didn’t close on squishy greasy paper. Instead he felt something cold and hard. He dropped it in surprise. As he stood up, his foot kicked the object that had clattered onto the pavement in front of him. He stooped to pick it up, weighing it in his hand, and a grin spread slowly across his face. With a quick glance around, he squatted down once more. Paying no attention to the rain that was now falling heavily, he admired the knife. It had a chunky black handle, and the blade was bent as though it had been bashed out of shape. He wiped the dirty blade on his jeans before slipping it inside his T-shirt where he could feel it jolting against his body as he strode away. If the gang came after him now, he was ready. He almost hoped they would come round the corner and try to mug him. They wouldn’t know what had hit them.

5

IAN SWITCHED THE TELEVISION on, while Bev clattered about in the kitchen clearing up. Comfortably full after a good dinner, he felt a surge of optimism about the future.

‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked her, muting the television when she came into the lounge.

She launched into a litany of irritations she had endured that day in her job at a recruitment agency. Ian half-listened, nodding and mumbling at appropriate intervals.

‘He knows I’m only supposed to work till five, but he kept me there until nearly half past.’

‘What a cheek.’

‘It’s not as if it was urgent. It could easily have waited until tomorrow, but he had it in his head that he wanted the letters to go out today, and he didn’t even ask if that was all right. I had better things to do with my time. Do you think I should refuse to work after five if it happens again? Or shall I ask if I’m getting paid overtime? Ian? Ian?’

Ian must have dozed off because he woke to the sound of his wife bleating his name.

‘I’m not sure –’ he equivocated. ‘What do you think?’

Bev resumed her tirade, unaware that he had lost the thread of her rant. Reprieved, he sat forward and paid careful attention as she carried on.

‘The thing is, if I ask about overtime and he refuses, I’m no worse off, am I? And either way, it makes the point, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘But if I carry on doing the extra hours without raising it as an issue, he’s just going to carry on taking advantage, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he probably will.’

‘So you think I should ask him?’

‘It does no harm to ask, as long as you’re diplomatic.’

‘Diplomatic?’

‘I know he’s not the best of bosses, but it’s best not to put his back up. You still have to work for him.’

‘Do you think I’m tactless, then?’

Ian sighed. He should have known her good mood wouldn’t last. Stifling another sigh, he tried to persuade her that she had misinterpreted his comment.

‘So this is my fault, is it?’

‘What are you talking about? It’s nobody’s fault. No one’s done anything wrong. We’re just talking about your boss, that’s all. Come here.’

He held out his arms to her and she came and sank down on the sofa beside him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just that you never seem to care about what I do. I know it’s only recruitment, and you’re out solving your important murders, but we get people into jobs. That matters too.’

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. She put her arms round him as she kissed him back, stroking his neck. Their kiss grew more passionate.

His work phone couldn’t have rung at a more frustrating time. Reluctantly he extricated himself from her embrace.

‘Sorry, love, I’ve got to get it.’

‘Of course you have.’ He tried to ignore the animosity in her tone, but she wouldn’t let it drop. ‘Don’t mind me. Just answer your bloody phone. You know you can’t wait to get back to work.’

She jumped up and ran out of the room. He was half out of his seat ready to follow her when the phone started ringing again. Whoever was calling wasn’t going to give up until he answered. It must be important.

‘Just give me a minute,’ he shouted after her. ‘I won’t be long.’

They both knew that was a lie.

Even though there wasn’t much traffic, it took Ian just over half an hour to drive to work. He drew into the car park and ran along the corridor to the Major Incident Room. The rest of the team were already there, waiting for the detective chief inspector. Ian breathed a silent sigh of relief. The detective inspector threw him an icy glare which Ian ignored. He had arrived in time. The briefing hadn’t started yet. Detective Constable Polly Mortimer smiled at him.

‘You haven’t missed anything,’ she muttered, as she flicked her dark brown hair back from her face.

Ian nodded gratefully. He wasn’t even late. But it had been a close thing.

Seconds later the detective chief inspector strode into the room. Poker-faced, he brought the assembled officers up to speed, speaking in a rapid monotone. Ian had to listen carefully so as not to miss anything. Glancing around, he saw his colleagues all leaning forwards, intent on the senior investigating officer’s words. The body of a woman aged mid-to-late fifties had been discovered in a park, stabbed to death.

‘There’s no question we’re dealing with an unlawful killing,’ the detective chief inspector concluded. ‘So what we need to do now is establish the identity of the victim and nail whoever did this. Any questions?’

‘Wasn’t there anything on the victim to identify her?’ someone asked.

The chief inspector shook his head.

‘She had no keys, no purse, nothing on her at all, which suggests it could have been a mugging that went wrong. Scene of crime officers are busy right now, so check with the duty sergeant, and let’s get started.’

There was a sudden air of bustle. Everyone knew it was important to gather information promptly, before the trail went cold.

6

IAN STARED MOROSELY AT the back of the detective inspector’s head as they crossed the car park. Remembering his wife’s unfounded suspicions about his relationship with his attractive former detective inspector, he supposed he should be relieved his new inspector was a dour-faced middle-aged man. He wondered what Bev would say if he ended up working with a young female constable, like Polly. She would certainly be a more attractive partner than Rob. It wasn’t that Ian fancied her, but he appreciated her cheerful nature and wicked sense of humour.

Rob sat in silence as Ian drove to the site where a woman’s body had been discovered earlier that evening. ‘Park’ was a rather grandiose name for a scrubby area of grass beside a lake. An overgrown copse of trees and reeds grew in unattractive disorder on an artificial island in the centre of the water. Empty bottles and cans floated on the surface of the scummy water, beside which a sign warned the public to: ‘Keep children and pets away from the water. The Environment Agency has advised that there may be blue-green algae present’. A white forensic tent stood on the path at the water’s edge, another blight on the scene. Even in the fresh night air, the breeze carried a foul stench.

‘It stinks here,’ Rob muttered, wrinkling his nose, as they pulled on their white protective suits and blue shoes before entering the tent. Ian shivered and wished he had thought to put on a coat before rushing out of the house. He shrugged and turned his attention to the job.

Inside the tent, white-clad scene of crime officers had gathered in a huddle. Between their hunched backs Ian could see a woman lying on a bench. She could have been asleep were it not for a large blood stain on her T-shirt.

‘It looks like she was stabbed through the heart,’ one of the SOCOs said. ‘A doctor’s been and gone but he just stopped long enough to certify she’s dead. He said there was no point in his hanging around as there’ll be an autopsy.’

Ian frowned impatiently. He wished he had been given a chance to speak to the doctor then and there.

‘Can we move the body yet?’ another SOCO asked. ‘The mortuary van’s waiting.’

‘Give us a minute,’ Rob said. ‘Was she killed here, do you think?’

‘There’s no sign she was moved after she was stabbed, but it’s difficult to say with any degree of certainty because there was a heavy downpour earlier on. The path in front of the bench slopes towards the lake, so it’s impossible to say how much blood could have been washed into the water.’

‘Surely there’ll be traces?’

‘Yes, we’ll find traces but it might not be possible to ascertain how much blood there was. If we find enough evidence to establish she was killed here, all well and good, but it could be inconclusive if we don’t.’

Ian shivered again and thrust his hands into the sleeves of his protective suit. Despite the cold, he didn’t object to a few moments’ delay. Even though they couldn’t tell much before seeing a full post mortem report, it was useful to study the body at the site of the murder, to help them build an impression of what had happened there. He tried to focus on the victim. As far as he could tell, the dead woman had been slender and short. Her dark grey hair was streaked with chestnut brown that glimmered in the bright lights. Pulled back off her face, it gave her a severe appearance. Ian guessed her eyes were also brown but they were closed, as though she was sleeping peacefully. She had small neat features, well-proportioned, and must have been quite attractive when she was younger. In death her face looked ghastly, grey and somehow shrunken, as though her cheeks had collapsed inwards. Dressed in muddy white trainers, a navy track suit and white T-shirt drenched in blood, she was wearing a plain gold wedding ring. No other jewellery was visible, not even a watch.

‘Have we found a murder weapon?’ Rob’s voice broke his concentration.

‘Not yet,’ a SOCO replied. ‘We’re still looking.’

‘Have you come across anything that might point us in the right direction?’

The SOCO shook his head. The body had been reported by a group of teenagers who had gone to the park to ‘hang out’. Several officers had queried what the youngsters had been doing, out on the streets so late at night. It was unfortunate there had been eight or nine of them, trampling around the area, destroying or contaminating any potential evidence. In addition, they needed a statement from a man who claimed to have arrived first on the scene, shortly before the gang of kids turned up. It was going to be a long night.

Ian was still staring at the woman.

‘Was she lying on her back like that when she was found?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but she wasn’t killed in that position,’ a SOCO replied. ‘The pattern of blood on her shirt and trousers suggests she was stabbed in the chest while she was in an upright position. It looks as though she was stabbed from directly in front, and then she fell onto her side. You can see the indentations from the bench on her face. She must have been moved onto her back some time after she died.’

‘So someone turned her over onto her back after she was dead?’ Ian repeated. ‘It’s quite possible whoever did that wasn’t the killer. Do we know for certain those teenagers didn’t disturb the body?’ He turned to the SOCO. ‘Or is it possible someone else turned her over?’

The SOCO shrugged.

‘I can’t say if someone else came along.’

‘But why would they have turned her over and then just left her?’ Rob asked.

‘To see who she was, or maybe to get at her pockets,’ Ian mused aloud. ‘She could have been robbed after she was dead, by someone other than the killer.’

‘Or maybe her pockets were emptied to stop her being identified,’ Rob suggested.

They discussed possible scenarios for a few minutes, but at this stage they could only speculate.

There was nothing else the SOCO team could tell them. After staring helplessly at the dead woman for a few minutes longer, Ian followed the inspector out of the tent. They couldn’t walk around the park area, which was being searched for footprints or any other evidence the killer might have left behind. The group of teenagers who had stumbled on the body were standing together just outside the park, under the watchful eye of a female constable. Ian suspected the youngsters might have shifted the dead woman’s position in order to comb through her pockets, although they all strenuously denied having gone anywhere near the corpse. Ian and Rob took their details and questioned them briefly on the pavement.

One of the girls shuddered, while another squealed in horror.

‘I ain’t going nowhere near that old stiff. Catch me!’

‘He ain’t telling you to go near it, bitch,’ one of the boys said. ‘The pig wants to know if she was like that before or what.’

‘Before what?’

‘Before we was there.’

‘Well, if we wasn’t there, how are we supposed to know what she was like? Them pigs is well thick.’

‘That’s why they’re pigs, innit?’

‘Hey, you,’ Rob interrupted sternly, ‘watch your mouth or you’ll be spending the night in a cell.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ The boy turned to his mates. ‘Is he threatening me? That’s police harassment, innit? You all heard it.’

No one bothered to answer.

They dismissed the group of teenagers. Now it was time to leave, Ian was unaccountably reluctant to go. He stood by the entrance to the park area, gazing around.

‘What are you looking at?’ Rob asked.

Ian shook his head. He wasn’t looking for anything specific. If there was any evidence to be found, the search team would discover it. He just wanted to get a feel of the place, to give the murder scene some kind of existence in his mind. But although the victim was real enough, it was impossible to visualise her killer without knowing anything more. They didn’t even know if she had been stabbed to death by a man or a woman.

‘Come on,’ Rob said, after Ian had been standing silently observing the sparse grass and withered bushes. ‘Let’s make a move. See if we can get some sleep tonight. We don’t want to be done in before we even get started.’

But the investigation had already started, and so far it wasn’t going well.

‘An anonymous victim, no sign of the killer, no witnesses, and no murder weapon,’ Rob said grimly before he walked off with a constable who was driving him back to the police station.

7

ROB SET OFF BACK to the station to write up his report, leaving Ian to question the old man who had been in the park when the teenagers had found the victim. Ian sympathised with the witness. It was difficult enough for Ian to view bodies at a crime scene or in the mortuary with his colleagues, when he knew what to expect. It must be traumatic to see a body without any warning, when you were out by yourself. Ian thought back to the first corpse he had seen, spreadeagled on a table in the morgue. Horribly white, its chest neatly slit open, the body had barely looked human. The clinical approach adopted by his colleagues ought to have made the situation easier for Ian to deal with, but he had struggled to reach the toilet before he threw up. He had managed to get his reactions under control since that first embarrassing incident, and was fairly confident he had succeeded in keeping his nausea a secret from his colleagues. But he had to resign himself to his predicament. He would never feel comfortable in the presence of death, and he came up against it regularly in the course of his work.

The streets around the park area had been cordoned off. The witness was standing just outside the park, beside a uniformed constable. Neither of them was talking. Old and frail, Frank Whittaker’s distress was evident. He was unnaturally pale and was smoking feverishly, exhaling out of one side of his mouth to avoid blowing smoke in the constable’s face. In his youth Whittaker must have been a hefty bloke, but his frame was bowed, as though aged by a serious illness. He looked up apprehensively when Ian went over and addressed him by name. The cigarette trembled in his hand, and he looked cowed, as though he had been caught out doing something wrong, although there was no reason to suspect he was implicated in the stabbing. Ian reassured Whittaker that he only wanted to ask him a few questions about what he had seen.

Despite his nervous manner, Whittaker’s account was straight-forward.

‘I go out every evening, unless it’s really raining hard, and sometimes even then. My wife insists I need to get out of the house more, since I retired. She isn’t happy unless I go out for a brisk walk, twice a day, morning and evening. Doctor’s orders. But the truth is I don’t go as far as she thinks.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I only walk as far as the park where I can sit on a bench and have a quiet smoke. The wife doesn’t approve, you see. So I have a smoke in peace, she thinks I’m getting my daily exercise, and we’re both happy.’

After taking a long drag on his cigarette, he chucked it on the ground, crushing it beneath his shoe.

Although Ian hadn’t asked what he was doing there, he seemed to think he ought to account for his presence.

‘I come here because it isn’t far, and it’s usually quiet. There’s sometimes kids hanging around but they usually turn up later on. Apart from that there’s never anyone here in the evening, and there’s a bench to sit on, if it’s not wet. So I came here this evening, like I often do, and blow me if there wasn’t someone sitting on the bench in the rain. There’s never anyone there.’ He paused.

‘What do you remember next?’

‘I remember I was surprised, because I never saw anyone sitting there before, not in the evening. And who would want to sit on a park bench in the rain? So I took a look as I was walking by –’

He hesitated.

Ian looked up from his notebook and saw that the witness was looking down at his hands as he fumbled with his cigarette packet.

‘What did you see?’

He waited for him to finish fidgeting with his lighter. The end of the cigarette made glowing patterns in the night air as Whittaker gesticulated while he spoke.

‘I was looking straight at her as I walked past, because, like I said, I was curious. I looked her straight in the eye as I went past. She didn’t even blink and I couldn’t help noticing she wasn’t moving. Then I saw a dark stain on the front of her jacket and went closer to see if she was all right. I think I already knew she was dead, really. She was so still. I mean, it’s not natural for a woman not to react in any way when a strange man approaches and stares at her, is it?’

Concerned and curious, he had craned his neck forward for a closer look. As he did so, a cloud had drifted away from the moon, throwing a shaft of light down on the inert figure on the bench. When she didn’t respond to his calling out, he had taken a step nearer and tapped her gingerly on the shoulder. Still she didn’t react. As he dithered, he had heard voices and shouts of laughter from a gang of teenagers loitering nearby. There was no way back to the street without risk of being spotted, so he hid behind a tree trunk and waited for an opportunity to get away.

‘Why did you hide?’

‘I was scared of being mugged. And seeing that dead woman had me all shook up.’

He had little else to tell. The kids had started jeering at the woman on the bench, then one of the girls started screaming and that set them all off. Next thing Whittaker knew, they were all on their phones, summoning the police.

‘Why didn’t you call us?’

‘I haven’t got my phone on me. Don’t tell my wife, will you? She’ll kill me if she knows I’ve come out without it.’

8

FROM THE OUTSIDE IT was a perfectly normal detached house in Canterbury Road, an ordinary residential street. Even now, when he opened the gate, he felt a tremor of apprehension in case he had come to the wrong address. It was hard to believe that behind its closed curtains this place was sacred. The property was reasonably well maintained, although behind a tall hedge the garden had been left to run wild. Grasses and brambles grew to waist height with here and there a flowering weed providing a bright splash of colour against an urban wilderness of foliage. The path, cracked and uneven, was barely visible between the encroaching plants. He approached the front door with a familiar sense of awe, knocked three times, paused, then knocked again. It was opened by a tall man dressed in black who gazed at him with a stern expression.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to see the leader.’

‘Everyone wants to see the leader.’

As the door swung closed behind them, a girl came running down the stairs. She had long fair hair and looked very young.

‘What do you want?’ she asked in her turn.

‘I’ve come to see the leader.’

‘Everyone wants to see the leader.’

He had hoped to be taken to the leader straight away, but he wasn’t going to complain about being greeted by a female disciple. It was better than waiting alone. Without a word he followed the girl upstairs to a small bedroom where she slipped out of her robe and welcomed him to the house. The bed was narrow and had a musty smell but the girl was sweetly perfumed and lithe.

When she was getting dressed again, he repeated his request to see the leader.

‘Everyone wants to see the leader,’ she replied with a dreamy smile.

‘You don’t understand,’ he protested. ‘I’ve waited long enough. Tell him I’ve earned the right to see him. I’ve done what he asked.’

‘Wait here.’

The girl skipped away leaving him to pace impatiently up and down the narrow space between the small bed and a grey plastic chair in what was more of a box room than a bedroom. The walls were bare, apart from a picture of the leader who stared down at him with huge dark eyes. His skin looked white in the picture, but there was nothing weak about his expression. He remembered the first time he had met the leader in the street, apparently by accident. Since then he had studied the leader’s teachings and knew that nothing happened by chance.

After a long time, the girl returned. Smiling, she held out a white robe identical to her own.

‘Put this on. The leader will see you now.’

He stood up, experiencing an unexpected flicker of fear. Everything had seemed so clear the last time the leader had spoken to him. Having sent the other disciples away, the leader had put his request very simply.

‘All the gods ask of you is one simple act of devotion, one small sacrifice to prove you are worthy to accompany us on our journey into the light of salvation.’

It hadn’t sounded like a small sacrifice. Shocked, he had dared to challenge the leader.

‘Why her, of all people?’