Deathly Affair E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 450

Beschreibung

It had taken him less than a minute to become a killer. When the lifeless body of a homeless man is discovered, strangled in a brutal act of violence, Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel is immediately struck by the calculated and ruthless nature of the crime. Then when a second murder unfolds, it becomes evident that a sinister killer is on the loose—a perpetrator whose motives remain as enigmatic as they are deadly. In the face of scepticism, Geraldine refuses to waver in her pursuit of the truth. Determined and steadfast, she embarks on an investigation that will lead her down unexpected paths, delving deep into the lives of three individuals entangled in a toxic triangle of love and deceit. With each step closer to the heart of the mystery, she unearths shocking revelations that nobody could have seen coming. The depths of darkness and deception in this case exceed anyone's expectations, and she must navigate treacherous paths to expose the unimaginable truth. Deathly Affair is a gripping and enthralling thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Leigh Russell skilfully weaves a web of suspense, drawing you into a world where nothing is as it seems. Fans of Angela Marsons, Mel Sherratt, and Karin Slaughter will be captivated by Geraldine Steel's relentless pursuit of justice.

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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

‘A million readers can’t be wrong! Loyal fans of Geraldine Steel will be thrilled with this latest compelling story from Leigh Russell. New readers will discover a terrific crime series to get their teeth into. Clear some time in your day, sit back and enjoy a bloody good read’ – Howard Linskey

‘Taut and compelling’ – Peter James

‘Leigh Russell is one to watch’ – Lee Child

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

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

‘Death Rope is another cracking addition to the series which has just left me wanting to read more’ – Jen Med’s Book Reviews

‘The story keeps you guessing until the end. I would highly recommend this series’ – A Crime Reader’s Blog

‘A great plot that keeps you guessing right until the very end, some subtle subplots, brilliant characters both old and new and as ever a completely gripping read’ – Life of Crime

‘Russell at her very best and Steel crying out to be turned into a TV series’ – The Mole, Our Book Reviews Online

‘This is an absorbing and compelling serial killer read that explores the mind and motive of a killer, and how the police work to track down that killer’ – Jo Worgan, Brew & Books Review

‘An absolute delight’ – The Literary Shed

‘I simply couldn’t put it down’ – Shell Baker, Chelle’s Book Reviews

‘Highly engaging’ – Jacob Collins, Hooked From Page One

‘If you love a good action-packed crime novel, full of complex characters and unexpected twists this is one for you’ – Rachel Emms, Chillers, Killers and Thrillers

‘I chased the pages in love with the narrative and style… You have all you need within Class Murder for the perfect crime story’ – Francesca Wright, Cesca Lizzie Reads

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

‘A series that can rival other major crime writers out there…’ – Best Books to Read

‘Sharp, intelligent and well plotted’ – Crime Fiction Lover

‘Another corker of a book from Leigh Russell… Russell’s talent for writing top-quality crime fiction just keeps on growing…’ – Euro Crime

‘A definite must read for crime thriller fans everywhere’ – Newbooks Magazine

‘For lovers of crime fiction this is a brilliant, not-to-be missed, novel’ – Fiction Is Stranger Than Fact

‘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’ – Crime Squad

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

‘An encounter that will take readers into the darkest recesses of the human psyche’ – 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’ – Euro Crime

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

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

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

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

With my love

‘And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action’

William Shakespeare

Glossary of acronyms

DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI – Detective Inspector

DS – Detective Sergeant

SOCO –cene 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)

VIIDO – Visual Images, Identification and Detections Office

Prologue

Strictly speaking he was not a killer. Not yet.

Tonight, for the first time, conditions were perfect. He passed several people scurrying along the pavement, hoods and umbrellas up against a light drizzle that had begun to fall. No one would pay any attention to the hood which concealed his own face. He looked unremarkable in every way. The street was deserted, but another pedestrian could appear around the corner at any moment. If he failed to seize the opportunity, right now, he might never have another chance.

If intention were the same as action this would be easy, but he had underestimated the gulf between thought and deed. Shakespeare, who understood human nature perhaps better than anyone, had warned that overthinking could ‘make cowards of us all’.

Best not to think about it at all then, now the time had come. He had already given more than enough thought to this, weighing up the risks and playing it out in his mind while he lay in bed at night.

It was not as though a likely victim had fallen into his lap. Far from it. It had taken him months to find someone who used a covered step as a bed, where he was likely to sleep when it rained. Having identified a suitable target, he had prepared for this moment with care, following his shuffling victim for several evenings along Coney Street to the doorway of an empty shop where he spent the night.

Winter would soon be on its way, signalling the end of his opportunities until the spring because, when the weather turned cold, the homeless would seek out bricks and mortar shelter from the elements, safe from predators roaming the streets – and killers. But York in early September was warm, with only a slight chill in the air at night, and homeless people could still be found sleeping rough, even in wet weather.

The tramp settled himself down in his doorway, exactly as he had done for the past few evenings, unaware that this was the last time he would pull his grubby coat around his bare ankles and pat his bundle into shape before using it as a pillow. Oblivious of his watcher, he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small bottle. Laboriously, he heaved himself into a semi-recumbent position, leaning on one elbow, so that he could fumble with the lid before taking a swig. A trickle of pale amber liquid dribbled down his chin and disappeared into his straggly beard.

Pressed motionless against the opposite wall, the watcher waited.

At last the tramp settled down on his rough bed, curled himself into a foetal position, and lay still. Perhaps he heard a cautious footstep or a nearly silent breath because, just as the hooded figure reached him, the tramp stirred and his eyes flickered open. He half sat up, the expression in his watery grey eyes shifting from surprise to fear as he struggled to clamber to his feet, but his hoarse croak of protest came too late. The noose was already tightening around his throat.

The tramp’s arms flailed helplessly for a moment before he grew limp, very suddenly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and his filthy fingers stopped scrabbling at the sleeves of his assailant’s jacket. Had the sagging body not been held upright by the stick relentlessly turning at the nape of his neck, the victim would have collapsed. And still the noose tautened, carving a dark runnel around the unwashed neck.

Finally, satisfied that his victim was dead, the assailant released the tension and stepped back. His hood was still pulled forward, masking his face. The only unforeseen complication was that fibres from his own jacket might be found lodged beneath the dead man’s fingernails. It was the kind of detail that could lead to a conviction. He would have to get rid of his jacket. That was a nuisance because his wife was bound to notice, but he could not risk keeping it. He would have to find an identical replacement for the jacket, or invent an excuse for its disappearance. Annoyed with himself for the oversight, he turned and slipped away along the glistening pavement.

It had taken him less than a minute to become a killer.

1

Even though her marriage was a mistake, Ann had never intended to break her vows. It was not as if David was a bad husband. After all, he had done the right thing in offering to marry her as soon as he had learned she was pregnant. She was the one who had blundered by saying yes, but she had been seventeen at the time, and scared. Even then she had known she did not love David, certainly not enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. The thought of years stretching ahead of her, spending every night in bed with the same man in married monotony, had made her cry when she was alone in her single bed in her parents’ house. Only she had not been alone, not really, because there was a baby growing inside her. Besides, her parents had given her little choice, and at seventeen she had not developed the strength of character to withstand their hectoring.

‘Of course I love him,’ she had lied to her mother, choosing to waive any possibility of future happiness rather than admit the humiliating truth, that her affair with David had been thoughtless and meaningless.

‘In that case, we won’t stand in your way. You must marry him,’ her mother had promptly replied, as though she wished to support her daughter’s decision and was not merely concerned about what other people might think.

The truth was that Ann’s parents had been keen for her to marry David from the moment they learned about the pregnancy. He was a qualified lawyer, and they thought she was lucky to have found a man with a steady profession who would stand by her and take care of her and her child. If anyone had asked Ann what she really wanted, the outcome might have been very different. But everyone had been happy to go along with the marriage because, of course, there was the baby.

David was not a bad man, but he was hardly the partner Ann would have chosen to spend the rest of her life with. To a naive seventeen-year-old, the attentions of a tall and well-spoken man in his late thirties had been exciting at first. Compared to the boys of her own age she hung around with, his maturity had been part of the attraction, and she had been flattered by his interest in her. Before long she had realised the problem. It was not just that he was twenty years older than her, but he was boring. Right from the start he had barely said a word when they were together. He seemed to want to speak to her. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with unnerving intensity, but when she challenged him he would stammer and look away. What she had at first tolerated as shyness became tedious.

Looking back over the years, it was hardly surprising that one of them would end up being unfaithful, but she had not expected it would be her. Her only justification for having embarked on an affair at all was that since the age of eighteen her life had been filled with nappies and teething rings, trips to the doctor, leaking washing machines, cooking, cleaning, packing for holidays, and homework. Not that she regretted having her daughter. Aimee kept her busy and relentlessly cheerful. And her life could have been a lot worse. Perhaps nothing would have changed had she not met another man during the interval at her daughter’s school concert.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

She turned and saw a young man. He had neatly cropped fair hair and green-blue eyes that almost disappeared when he smiled, giving an impression that he did not take life seriously. She liked that about him instantly. Returning his smile, she was dismayed when he turned and vanished into the crowd.

‘Was it something I said?’ she muttered.

Considering she had not said a word to the man who had just approached her, she felt unreasonably disappointed as she began to make her way back to the auditorium.

‘Hey, you can’t leave yet, not now I’ve paid for this.’

The young man was back, with a pint in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, which he held out to her. He told her that his name was Mark and he was a music teacher.

‘Music teacher?’ she repeated. ‘I like music. Not sure about teachers though.’

‘We should get along famously then,’ he replied. ‘Most teachers I know are insufferable.’

His flirting became more blatant but she did not object and, by the time he bought her another drink, she felt as though she had known him for years. She must have had too much to drink because she agreed to visit him at his home the following week. He lived in a flat above a shop in Gillygate. All that week she thought of little else but the man with green-blue eyes. Even when she made up her mind to forget all about him she knew, deep down, that she was going to accept his invitation. As soon as she arrived, he offered her a glass of wine. One drink turned into three then four until Ann was tipsy and, unusually for her, she found she was having fun, thrilled by a rare sense of freedom.

‘I feel like a teenager again,’ she giggled.

‘You’re pissed.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

She was on the point of thanking him for the drinks and telling him she had to go home. He had no right to expect anything else. Yet when she felt his leg touching hers she did not move away but let things unfold, not unlike when she had fallen pregnant at seventeen.

She could hear her mother’s voice inside her head, warning her as she followed Mark into his bedroom: ‘Have you learned nothing?’ But she did not want to listen, nor did she want to learn. Her mother could teach her nothing. She had been sensible for long enough. So although she had never intended to cheat on her husband, that was exactly what she did. The trouble was, it did not end with that one night. Because despite the difference in their ages, or maybe because of it, Mark and Ann hit it off. That was a pity. If he had turned out to be a good-looking but callow dullard, she would have walked away from her secret fling and gone back to her normal life with hardly a backward glance. She could have forgiven herself one fleeting encounter in fifteen years of loyal duty to a man she had never really loved. But Mark listened to her, and he made her laugh. He insisted on playing music and dancing with her when they went back to his flat, and he flatly refused to let her help him clear up when they ordered a takeaway.

‘Next time, I’ll cook for you,’ he promised her, when they were lying in each other’s arms, naked.

‘Next time?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Gazing into his smiling eyes, she realised he was right in supposing she would see him again.

‘What makes you think there’ll be a next time?’ she asked. ‘You do know I’m married.’

Mark shrugged. ‘Yet here you are and, as long as you are here, nothing else exists, does it?’

Cocooned in the warmth of his embrace she realised he was right. Never before had she felt so overwhelming a rush of love for another adult. Intense infatuation, passion, she did not understand what she was feeling; she only knew that it was wonderful. It was not about sex, although his prowess was undeniable. It was like a drug, as though she had only seen in black and white before and now everything appeared to her in glorious colour. She wondered if this was love. As long as her husband remained ignorant of her affair it could not hurt him, and she would make sure he never found out. Whatever happened, she had to carry on seeing Mark.

2

The evenings were drawing in and there were a few other hints of approaching winter with the leaves beginning to fall and a noticeable drop in temperature, especially at night. First thing in the morning there was a chill in the air and Geraldine had begun wearing a jacket on her short journey to the police station. She preferred to get to work early to avoid the traffic and often had breakfast at her desk. The office seemed dull without her fellow detective sergeant, Ariadne, who was away on a week’s holiday. Geraldine had become accustomed to her colleague’s smiling greeting each morning. They had a lot in common, being around the same age and single, and it had not taken them long to slip into the habit of spending their lunch hour together. Without Ariadne sitting opposite her, punctuating the hours with her occasional quips, Geraldine’s day dragged. She was on good terms with her other colleagues but, after living in York for seven months, Ariadne was the only one with whom she could let her guard down. Generally focused on her work in the serious crime unit, it was not in Geraldine’s nature to be frivolous, and her new friend’s lighthearted approach to problems often lifted her spirits.

There had been a time when Geraldine had regarded another of their colleagues as her closest friend. She and Detective Inspector Ian Peterson had known one another when he had been her sergeant in her days working as a detective inspector. But their roles were now reversed and since he had become her senior officer he had become aloof, only rarely showing flashes of his former warmth towards her. Having missed Ariadne, Geraldine was pleased to hear from her on her return, and they arranged to meet for a drink.

‘So, what’s been going on while I’ve been away?’ Ariadne asked as she put a couple of pints on the table between them and pulled up a chair.

‘Honestly? Absolutely nothing.’

‘Oh well, no news is good news I suppose.’

They exchanged a shamefaced look. Much as they both abhorred the crimes they investigated, for detective sergeants working in serious crime, their jobs could be monotonous when they were not working on a case.

‘A mugging, a ring of shoplifters, a stolen car,’ Geraldine said, reeling off a list of relatively minor infringements, ‘and mounds of reports to write. So, how was your week off?’

Looking unusually despondent, Ariadne described her trip to visit her cousins in Athens. ‘I mean, it’s great seeing my family – I get on really well with my cousins – but it’s depressing to see how the city has changed since I was last there. A lot of the buildings look derelict and it’s more like a slum every time I visit. There’s graffiti and litter everywhere. Honestly, people think things are bad here, but they’ve no idea how well off they are...’ she broke off and rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you how dreadful conditions are there. And the frightening thing is, it’s all degenerated so quickly. I know it’s unfashionable to complain about Europe,’ she went on, lowering her voice, ‘but really, the joint economy hasn’t served everyone’s interest. Greece was better off before it joined up with Germany and France. They’ve decimated the Greek economy.’

‘Would Greece have been any better off on its own?’

Ariadne shrugged. ‘Probably not. But what’s really worrying is not so much the poverty, although that’s distressing enough to witness, but the numbers of people unemployed, so many youngsters who’ve never had a job. It’s frightening.’

Despite her Yorkshire accent, with her striking long black curls and eyes as dark as Geraldine’s, it was easy to believe Ariadne’s mother was Greek. They chatted for a while. Geraldine suggested going out for something to eat, but Ariadne said she was worn out and wanted to get home to unpack.

‘Sure,’ Geraldine smiled. ‘To be honest, I’m pretty tired myself.’

‘From doing nothing?’

‘Exactly. It’s hardly been a stimulating week while you’ve been away.’

‘Well, now I’m here, I’m sure your life is about to get a whole lot more exciting.’

She laughed and Geraldine joined in. It was good to have her friend back. They parted and Geraldine returned to her flat. It had taken her a few months to settle down in York but she felt at home now in her new apartment overlooking the river. She made herself a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce, a recipe she had been experimenting with for a few weeks. It was not quite right yet, but it was her best effort so far. Leaving her blinds open, she ate staring out into the darkness of the night, wondering what crimes were being committed while she sat safely indoors, eating and drinking wine.

The next morning she was woken by her phone ringing before her alarm went off.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she grumbled. ‘Hello? Hello?’

Still listening to the message, she switched on the light and grabbed her clothes with her free hand.

‘OK,’ she replied, scrambling into her jeans, ‘I’m on my way now.’

Her colleague, Detective Inspector Ian Peterson, arrived at the location in the centre of the city at the same time as Geraldine. Together they approached the cordon. Without exchanging a word they pulled on protective clothing and followed the common approach path to the crime scene. A dead body had been discovered by a postman on an early morning round in the doorway of an empty shop in Coney Street which ran alongside the river, not far from York Minster.

Shivering, Geraldine gazed down at the hump of ragged clothing that concealed a corpse. The lower part of the dead man’s face was covered by a grizzled beard and his lips were concealed beneath a straggly moustache. Above a large nose, dark eyes glared blindly up at them.

‘He looks like a tramp,’ Ian grunted, turning away.

Geraldine suppressed a sigh. Having worked as Ian’s mentor when he was still a young sergeant, she was possibly his only colleague who was aware of the queasiness he experienced when viewing corpses. Without mentioning the subject, she did her best to protect him from the need to attend post mortems. But she could not shelter him from the brutal ugliness of crime scenes.

‘He hasn’t got any form of identification, only a few pounds in coins in one pocket, and an empty beer bottle in the other,’ a scene of crime officer said. ‘But you’re right. He looks as though he might be homeless.’

Geraldine nodded. The stench of death masked any other smell from the body, but he was certainly filthy, his fingernails black with grime, his face speckled with dirt.

‘What did he die of?’ Ian asked.

He refrained from wondering aloud why the major crime unit would be summoned to investigate an old hobo who had no doubt drunk himself to death, but Geraldine thought his voice seemed to imply the question. She hoped she had misinterpreted his tone.

‘He was strangled,’ a scene of crime officer replied quietly.

‘I suppose it’s too much to hope the killer used his bare hands?’ Geraldine asked.

Craning her neck to peer under the rough sleeper’s collar, she saw a short section of a red band around his throat. Ian must have noticed it too because he muttered something inaudible under his breath.

‘Who the hell would bother to do that – to him?’ the scene of crime officer asked.

Something in the dismissive tone of his voice prompted another officer to add, ‘And why are we spending so much time and effort on him?’

Geraldine glared at her colleagues, too angry to trust herself to respond. Unwashed and homeless, the dead man had been a human being. Any one of the officers there might have become homeless had their lives panned out differently. Drugs, legal or controlled, could render anyone dysfunctional, and the decline into penury was often swift and unforgiving. If her work had taught her anything, she had come to understand that the boundary between coping with life and falling apart was flimsier than most people realised. This tramp’s murder deserved the full attention of the authorities, no less than any other victim. Justice had to be indiscriminate, like death.

She kept her indignation to herself, determined to channel her anger into finding the killer. A cordon had been set up and the forensic tent was expected imminently. Although the weather was fine, being outside they needed to protect any evidence at the scene from the threat of deterioration and contamination. In the few moments that would elapse before the forensic tent arrived, Geraldine focused on the scene, doing her best to ignore the white-coated forensic officers and uniformed police who were guarding the cordon. She had stood in such a position many times before, but the visceral thrill she experienced never lessened. Her colleagues’ offhand reaction to the body made her uneasy, and she wondered whether the rest of the team could be relied on to devote their usual level of attention to detail at this particular crime scene.

‘Do you think they’ll be thorough –’ she began, and paused.

‘What? Who are you talking about?’ Ian replied.

His terse response reminded her of his discomfort when viewing the dead, a handicap for a detective that he had worked hard to overcome.

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure everything will be fine.’

Ian gave her a curious glance. ‘Not for him, it won’t.’

Their awkward conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the forensic tent, and they headed back to the police station to attend a briefing.

‘It looks as though he was sleeping in the doorway when he was attacked,’ Ian said. ‘The body hadn’t been moved, as far as the SOCOs could tell.’

The detective chief inspector was a solidly built woman. Her authoritative manner proved effective when she challenged suspects, but made her seem heavy-handed in her dealings with colleagues. Initially put off by Eileen’s didactic manner, Geraldine had come to respect the kind and generous nature that lay concealed behind her ferocity.

‘Were there any defence wounds?’ Eileen asked, squinting at an image of the dead man.

‘We’re not sure yet,’ Ian replied.

The post mortem would be able to tell them more about the nature of the attack.

‘He was strangled, so he was probably attacked from behind,’ Eileen said.

Ian nodded. ‘And he might not have had any warning.’

‘He was probably too drunk to know what was going on,’ a constable added.

‘He might have been partly responsible for what happened,’ another constable said.

‘What does that even mean? You’re not suggesting he strangled himself?’ Geraldine asked.

‘No, but he probably got into a fight while he was pissed, so it’s hardly surprising that –’

‘Just because he was homeless doesn’t mean he was either drunk or belligerent,’ Geraldine snapped, unable to control her irritation at the constables’ inane comments.

‘Let’s have no more of this idle speculation before we have gathered enough information to make a case,’ Eileen said firmly. ‘Ian, you’re in charge of the investigating team on this one, and Geraldine you can assist him in running the enquiry.’

Pleased to be conducting the investigation with Ian, Geraldine barely listened as Eileen proceeded to reel off a list of officers who would be working with them.

‘It’s obvious what happened –’ the disgruntled constable insisted, but Eileen interrupted him.

‘That’s enough,’ she snapped. ‘We need evidence, not supposition. This is a murder enquiry, and the status of the victim when he was alive is not the point. Homeless or not, he was murdered, and we need to find out who killed him. Now, we all have work to do, so let’s crack on, shall we?’

3

While a team was endeavouring to identify the victim, Geraldine was sent to question James Harrison, the postman who had discovered the body. After stumbling on the corpse, he had been in no fit state to continue his delivery round and his boss had sent him home. He lived on the outskirts of Heslington, a few miles from Lendal Post Office where he was based. Geraldine drove out to his house to speak to him, and a middle-aged woman came to the door. When Geraldine introduced herself and asked for James Harrison, the woman nodded.

‘They sent him home,’ she said. ‘He was pretty upset, although from what he told me it was just some rough sleeper who got himself killed. So, can you tell us what happened? No one seems to be telling James anything.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss our investigation. And now, I’d like to speak to James, please.’

‘Of course.’

James Harrison was young, tall, dark-haired and long limbed. Geraldine suspected his pallor might be a consequence of the shock he had experienced, and his shaky voice confirmed her impression.

‘I was just doing my rounds, you know,’ he told her.

He spoke very fast, and so softly that she struggled to catch the words, while his eyes flickered nervously to meet hers and away again.

‘It was... well, it’s not what you expect to see, is it? I’ve never seen a dead body before. Never. I suppose you see them all the time, don’t you?’

Geraldine wondered fleetingly what it would feel like, to be so distressed by the sight of a corpse. She had seen so many, but she had never felt anything other than fierce curiosity to discover who had been responsible for the victim’s death. Perhaps it made a difference that she did not usually come across corpses unexpectedly. Being mentally prepared made a difference, besides which she had become accustomed to the sight of the dead. She sometimes wondered if her work had made her become detached from all normal human feelings.

‘I was delivering the letters. Most of it was junk mail anyway. And he was just lying there, across the step. I assumed he was drunk, or asleep. So I –’ he paused and heaved a sigh. ‘I gave him a kick. Well, I didn’t know, did I? I mean, how was I to know he was dead? It wasn’t a real kick, more of a gentle nudge with my foot, but I didn’t know he was dead, did I? Anyway, he didn’t wake up.’ He paused, lost in his memory.

‘What happened then?’ Geraldine prompted him.

‘I leaned down and yelled in his ear, didn’t I? And he still didn’t stir. Well, of course he didn’t, because he was dead, wasn’t he? But I didn’t realise straight away. So I – I kicked him again, a bit harder. I figured if he was unconscious it wouldn’t hurt him. He half rolled over and that’s when I saw.’

‘Did you see the mark on his neck?’ Geraldine asked.

‘What? No. I saw his eyes, staring. That’s when I knew he was dead. So I called 999. I didn’t know what else to do.’

Geraldine nodded.

‘It’s my first week at work,’ he said miserably. ‘My third morning. What a way to start a new job.’

‘You did the right thing calling us,’ she reassured him. ‘And you did nothing wrong.’

Only kicked a dead body, shifted it from its position, and contaminated the evidence left behind by the killer, she thought, but she said nothing about his carelessness, instead explaining that the police would need to take a sample of his DNA.

‘And we’d also like to examine the shoes you were wearing this morning. We need to eliminate you from our list of suspects.’

‘Oh, Jesus. All this is enough to put you off your job,’ the postman said.

It is my job, Geraldine thought.

From everything the postman was able to tell her, the only significant pieces of information were the time he had discovered the body and his physical contact with the victim.

‘Where exactly did you kick him?’ she asked, aware that the pathologist might even now be studying injuries sustained by the victim post mortem.

The postman became cagey. ‘I didn’t kick him, really. Not deliberately. I just pushed him with my toe, to wake him up.’

‘You kicked him hard enough to make him roll over.’

‘Not exactly,’ he muttered. ‘He just – he just rolled over...’

Geraldine leaned forward. ‘What you did was perfectly understandable. No one is going to criticise you for trying to wake him up. You have a job to do, an important job, and he was obstructing you. But you must tell me exactly what you did, or the injuries you inflicted could mislead our investigation.’

‘I didn’t injure him –’

‘No, probably not. In any case, he was already dead, so you couldn’t have done him any harm.’ She smiled, trying to encourage the man to talk. ‘But you must tell me where your foot made contact with the body, or the pathologist might be misled into thinking the killer kicked the body after garroting him.’

‘What difference would it make if he did?’

‘It makes a difference,’ she replied. ‘We’re going to need to build a picture of the killer and this could affect it.’

‘Why do you want my shoes?’

Painstakingly, Geraldine repeated her explanation and eventually the postman seemed to understand and left the room to fetch a pair of large black trainers.

‘When will I get them back?’ he asked as he handed them over.

‘As soon as we’ve finished examining them and identifying any footprints you left at the scene.’

‘I didn’t leave any footprints,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need them back for tomorrow morning, very early.’

‘You’ll get them back when we finish with them,’ Geraldine said, beginning to lose patience with the witness. ‘James,’ she added, quickly regaining control of her temper, ‘this is important. What you’re doing is helping us to find a dangerous killer.’

‘It was just a tramp,’ he muttered crossly. ‘Those people get in fights all the time.’

‘But this man wasn’t killed in a fight,’ she said. ‘We think he may have been murdered deliberately.’

James shrugged. ‘It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? He’s still dead.’

Geraldine did not bother to point out that an accidental fatality in the course of a fight was very different from a planned murder.

4

David observed Ann through narrowed eyelids. He did not want her to catch him looking at her, because he knew how much she hated it.

‘What are you staring at?’ she would ask, whenever she noticed him watching her.

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re looking at me.’

‘So? What’s wrong with that? A man can look at his wife, can’t he? I like looking at you,’ he would reply.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re beautiful.’

It was a glib response, but it happened to be true. Even after fifteen years of marriage, he still felt his breath catch in the back of his throat whenever he saw his young wife. With blue eyes, wispy, fair hair and very pale skin, she looked ethereal, like an angel. The first time he had set eyes on her, he had been smitten. He had been having a quick pint on his way home to his empty flat. Drinking alone in the pub had felt less lonely than sitting at home on his own and besides, one of the barmaids in his local always gave him a friendly smile. God knows he had received few enough of those when he was younger. There was nothing wrong with him but he was not exactly outgoing, always the first to be overlooked in a group of people. He spent every day studying legal documents in a quiet room, where no one ever spoke to him.

That evening, Ann had walked into the pub with a group of teenagers, but the barmaid had refused to serve her.

‘No ID, no drink,’ she had said.

Ann’s crestfallen expression touched David. On a sudden impulse, he stood up and offered to buy her a drink. He knew he could be in trouble for infringing the law, but he did not think it would matter this once. No one would ever know. And the girl was beautiful. Giggling, she accepted and asked for a glass of white wine. The barmaid must have known who it was for, but she handed over the drink without demur. With a frisson of pleasure, David handed the glass to Ann. He saw a flash of gratitude in her lovely eyes and felt his hand tremble. Expecting her to take the drink and hurry back to her friends, he was surprised when she followed him to his table and sat down beside him. The silence between them grew awkward, so he took a chance and introduced himself. He was sure she was merely leading him on for the sake of another drink, but he was happy to sit there exchanging desultory remarks and could hardly believe his luck when she responded to his advances. Her cheeks reddened slightly as she asked whether he had a car. That appeared to be the deciding factor in her agreeing to go home with him; he was glad he had recently had his car cleaned.

To begin with they had kept their affair a secret. With about twenty years between them he had never expected the relationship to last, but as soon as she had fallen pregnant he had seized his chance. When her parents had supported his proposal, he knew he had won. Now, at fifty-two, he was old enough to know better than to remain obsessed with his young wife, but he could not help his adoration. He had always known she would never love him as he loved her, with an all-consuming passion that made everything else seem pale and dull. Meeting her had given purpose to his dreary life, and their marriage ceremony had been the best moment of his life. Right up to the very last minute he had expected her to do a runner. Relief, not happiness, had nearly reduced him to tears on seeing her arrive at the registry office flanked by her parents, one on either side of her, holding her by her arms. She had been visibly shaking and her parents had looked grim, as though they were attending a funeral.

He had let her think he was happy about the baby for its own sake. In reality he was pleased because he thought the baby would tie her to him, making her need him as he needed her. Their relationship could never be equal though, because she could walk away from him at any time and move on with her life. As far as he was concerned, she was his life. Before the baby arrived he had lived in fear of her leaving him. Once Aimee was born, he felt he had been granted a reprieve. But Ann had been unable to conceive again after problems with her first delivery and, now their daughter was fifteen, he worried about what was going to happen when she grew up and left home.

He provided a home for Ann, but he was afraid that would not be enough to keep her. She was only thirty-two, with nearly all of her adult life ahead of her. If she ever tried to leave him, he would do everything in his power to stop her going. He knew what it was to be lonely and the thought of living in the house without her terrified him, as did the prospect of facing old age without her. Ann said she loved him, but he knew that was not true. If love had not been kind to him, he knew that solitude was worse. So he was grateful to his wife for her feigned affection. He understood she was fond of him, and he had to be satisfied with that, even though he wanted her to love him with a fierce passion he suspected she was capable of feeling, but not for him.

He gave up speculating what his life might have been like if he had never met Ann, and whether he might have been happier with a woman who was able to love him as he loved her. He could not help his feelings, and he would never give Ann up. After a while he stopped telling her how he felt; it was too painful watching her pretend to reciprocate his feelings, and they found a way to live together in spite of the difference in their attachment. He wondered if every marriage was like his, with one partner loving, while the other was loved. It comforted him to think he was not alone in his desperation.

When Ann suggested she look for a job, David was horrified and insisted she stay at home.

‘We could put the money aside for Aimee,’ she said. ‘She’s going to want to go to university.’

‘Whatever she wants to do, I’ve taken care of everything,’ he told her. ‘We’re perfectly comfortable as we are. There’s no need for you to worry. And there’s certainly no call for you to go looking for a job.’

He was immensely relieved when she backed down without further protest. He told her he was happy to take care of the bills but the truth was he hated the idea of her finding a job and working with other men, some of whom would no doubt be closer to her in age. He could not imagine other men would be able to resist falling in love with her, as he had done. He had never had any close friends, and he dropped his few desultory social acquaintances once he was married, and refused to socialise with Ann’s friends. They were all much younger than him, and likely to find him a bore, and he could not risk allowing them to influence her. He worried sometimes that Ann would find her life with him dull, but she assured him that running their home and looking after Aimee kept her fully occupied.

‘I don’t know how other women have time to go out to work,’ she told him. ‘How do they ever find time to wash the curtains and clean out their cupboards regularly?’

As long as Aimee was living at home he felt relatively secure, but that would not continue forever. Already Aimee was considering her options for the sixth form, and talking about higher education. She grunted dismissively at him when he pointed out that the university in York was one of the best in the country, and there was really no need to look anywhere else.

‘I’m not staying in York,’ she said. ‘No way. The whole point of going to university is –’

‘Is to study so you can get a better job,’ he interrupted her.

Aimee rolled her eyes. ‘The whole point of going to university is that you can get away from your parents.’

‘We’re not that bad, are we?’ he asked with a smile.

Aimee heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh Dad, that’s so like you, missing the point again.’

To his surprise he had found he got on well with his teenage daughter, who seemed to seek out his company whenever she could. Ann called her a ‘daddy’s girl’ and he detected more than a hint of envy in her voice. Unused to being liked, he regarded this show of affection from his daughter as an unexpected bonus life had thrown him, but he knew it would not last forever. Aimee would leave home and then it would be just him and Ann. He looked forward to that time with trepidation, terrified he would not be able to keep her.

‘You won’t leave me when Aimee goes off, will you?’ he asked her once.

‘Goes off? What do you mean goes off?’

‘I mean when she leaves home.’

‘Oh, well why didn’t you say so?’

‘Well? Will you?’

‘Will I what?’

‘Will you leave?’

‘What? Aren’t we talking about Aimee leaving home?’

He was convinced she was being deliberately obtuse, avoiding giving him a straight answer, but somehow his question was lost in the apparent misunderstanding. He never dared ask her again.

5

Geraldine assured Ian she was happy to attend the post mortem by herself and he smiled in relief, claiming that he had to study a stack of documents connected to the case. Her readiness to visit the mortuary alone was unforced, since she understood the real reason for Ian’s reluctance to accompany her. It gave her a sense of deep satisfaction to know she was helping Ian in some way.

Jonah Hetherington greeted Geraldine with a cheery wave of a bloody hand. An ugly little man with a face like a pug dog, he was surprisingly attractive, thanks to his cheeky grin. He had carried out post mortems on the victims in quite a few of Geraldine’s cases so far, and they had built up a strong mutual trust through their professional encounters. He joked that he might not recognise her were they ever to meet without a cadaver for a chaperone.

‘This one’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t he?’ he asked, nodding at the body lying on a table in front of them. ‘Oh well, I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to spend too long on him?’

Jonah could have been referring to a crossword clue he had not yet solved. Once again Geraldine was dismayed at the offhand way her colleagues referred to the victim but, before she could challenge him, the pathologist carried on speaking in his characteristically good-humoured tone.

‘His clothes and poor personal hygiene seem to confirm the suspicion that he was a vagrant, living on the streets. He had an empty beer bottle in one of his coat pockets and quite a lot of alcohol swilling around in his guts, and he hadn’t eaten for a while. His trousers were several sizes too large for him so either he’d lost weight since he bought them, or else they were second-hand. If I had to hazard a guess at his age I’d say he was in his forties, although he looks a lot older than that. It’s hard to be sure. And I suppose there’s not much hope of identifying him?’

‘What about dental records?’ Geraldine asked half-heartedly.

They both knew it was unlikely the dead man had paid regular visits to a dentist.

‘So, he’d been drinking,’ Geraldine said when it was evident Jonah was not going to respond to her question. ‘What else can you tell us?’

‘He’d not eaten much recently. In fact I’d say he hadn’t been eating very much for quite a while. He was badly malnourished.’

‘Does that mean he’d probably been living rough for a while?’

The pathologist gave a helpless shrug as though to say, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ After a pause he answered her with a question, ‘You know there are centres in York that provide breakfast to rough sleepers?’

‘Yes, we’re asking around. How did he die?’

‘He was strangled. You can see the imprint of the noose here.’

‘Was he strangled with a rope?’

Jonah frowned. ‘No, it wasn’t a rope, it was a length of fabric of some kind. The width of the injury and the neatness of the edges suggest it could have been a tie.’

Once again Geraldine had the impression that he was not being as attentive to detail as he would normally be in a murder case. She hoped the fact that no one appeared to have cared about the victim was not going to make her colleagues slapdash in their approach. As far as she was concerned, the fact that no one was likely to call them to account was irrelevant. She tried to ignore her concerns and focus on the victim.

‘What can you tell us about the murder weapon?’

Jonah shook his head. Instead of answering her question, he raised one of his own. ‘Who would bother to do such a thing to him?’

With growing irritation, Geraldine repeated her question.

‘Murder weapon?’ Jonah chuckled with his usual good humour. ‘Doesn’t it ever strike you when you see a man in a tie, that we’re surrounded by men wearing lethal weapons around their necks every day?’

‘I’ll never go near a man in a tie again,’ she promised, returning his smile. ‘Unless it’s a bow tie. Now, what can you tell me about the tie that was used on this poor guy?’

‘Yes, poor in every sense of the word, I fear. Well, first off, we can’t say for sure that the killer used a tie to strangle him. It could have been any narrow strip of material, but there were no rough edges so it hadn’t been torn off from a larger piece. Under magnification you can see the threads, so yes, it was fabric of some kind, but I’m only speculating about what it might have been. But,’ he paused and glanced at her as though to check she was listening, ‘a few minute strands of fabric we found adhering to his skin have gone off for analysis. We’ll know more when the report comes back. We might have a colour and be able to tell you exactly what kind of fabric it was.’

‘Excellent,’ Geraldine said. ‘Let’s hope the lab don’t take too long to get back to us.’

Once they had some idea of what had been used to strangle the victim, they would be able to search CCTV footage of the area with a clearer idea of what they were looking for. With luck they might spot someone arriving or leaving the crime scene at around the time they thought the tramp had been killed, wearing a tie that appeared to match the strands of fabric found on the body. That way they would at least have a visual image of the killer which might enable them to narrow the field of suspects down to a man or woman, with dark or fair hair, with a certain build and an individual gait. While that would not necessarily lead them to the killer, any such information would certainly assist them in getting a conviction once the killer had been traced. But that was still a long way off.

At this point in an investigation, Geraldine’s attention usually turned to the family of the victim, and how to communicate the news of their loss. That, generally, was the most harrowing part of her job. But on this occasion there was as yet no one to tell, because they did not know who the victim was. It was possible they would never find out. She found that prospect almost unbearably sad.

Jonah’s cheery voice broke into her reverie. ‘All we need now is CCTV footage of an easily recognisable individual, wearing a tie of the appropriate colour, leaving the scene, preferably looking around with a furtive expression. And if we can trace that individual to a car with a visible registration number, the case will be solved.’

Geraldine smiled. ‘That would be nice.’

Aware that reality was likely to prove far more challenging than Jonah’s suggested scenario, Geraldine returned to the police station to write up her report.

‘Are you all right?’ Ariadne asked her, looking up from her own work.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?’

Ariadne shrugged. ‘You just looked very solemn.’

‘I’m thinking about the man who was killed. How do you want me to look?’

Her friend hesitated and lowered her voice. ‘Did you know him?’

‘No, I didn’t, and as far as we know so far, nor did anyone else. He’s dead and...’ On the verge of becoming emotional, Geraldine broke off with a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘Anyway, I dare say we’ll get to the bottom of it eventually.’

‘You’re right, it’s going to be tricky, not knowing who he was,’ Ariadne agreed, misunderstanding what Geraldine was saying. ‘But we’ll track him down eventually.’

Geraldine was not sure whether Ariadne was referring to the identity of the victim or his killer, but she felt too despondent to care. She was not sure why she felt so depressed about the death of an unknown man.

When Ariadne suggested going for a coffee, she agreed gladly. ‘Only if we don’t talk about the case,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why, but this one is getting to me,’ she added. ‘It just seems so sad that no one knew him when he was alive and no one cares now he’s dead,’ but Ariadne had already walked away and did not appear to have heard her.

6

At times Mark almost