Guilt Edged E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 459

Beschreibung

The killer pressed one knee on his victim's chest to prevent him clambering to his feet. Whipping a scarf from his pocket, he held it over George's face, covering his nose and mouth completely and pushing with all his strength. Hours seemed to elapse before George finally lay still. In a shocking act of violence, an apparently unassuming man is ruthlessly murdered with no discernible motive. Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel and her team find themselves stumped, until a breakthrough occurs—the victim's body yields DNA evidence from an unknown individual. But Geraldine isn't convinced that the suspect they have in custody is truly guilty. When a witness steps forward to offer an alibi for the suspect, she makes a daring decision to release him. However, the course of events takes a sinister turn as a second murder is committed that same night. With all the evidence pointing to the recently freed suspect, has Geraldine made a terrible mistake? As Steel delves deeper into the suspect's enigmatic past, he goes on the run, leaving behind a trail of uncertainty. Even his own wife seems to cast doubts on his innocence. Amidst the turmoil, Geraldine grapples with her own guilt for potentially releasing a killer. Is she driven by a need to uncover the truth or haunted by her own mistakes? Geraldine is consumed by self-doubt, struggling to maintain focus on the case at hand. As lies and secrets unravel, the police must unveil the truth before more lives are claimed. With a race against time, the tension escalates as the story hurtles toward an electrifying twist. Prepare for a riveting journey as you untangle the web of deceit in this heart-pounding thriller. Guilt Edged will keep you guessing until the final page. Fans of Angela Marsons, Mel Sherratt, and Karin Slaughter will relish Leigh Russell's masterful storytelling. Can be enjoyed as a stand-alone novel

Leseprobe

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

‘A million readers can’t be wrong! 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

‘Brilliant and chilling, Leigh Russell delivers a cracker of a read!’ – Martina Cole

‘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

‘A fascinating gripping read. The many twists kept me on my toes and second guessing myself’ – Over The Rainbow Book Blog

‘Well paced with marvellously well-rounded characters and a clever plot that make this another thriller of a read from Leigh Russell’ – Orlando Books

‘A well-written, fast-paced and very enjoyable thriller’ – The Book Lovers Boudoir

‘An edge-of-your-seat thriller that will keep you guessing’ – Honest Mam Reader

‘Well paced, has red herrings and twists galore, keeps your attention and sucks you right into its pages’ – Books by Bindu

‘5 stars!! Another super addition to one of my favourite series, which remains as engrossing and fresh as ever!’ – The Word is Out

‘A nerve-twisting tour de force that will leave readers on the edge of their seats, Leigh Russell’s latest Detective Geraldine Steel thriller is a terrifying page-turner by this superb crime writer’ – Bookish Jottings

‘An absolute delight’ – The Literary Shed

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

‘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

‘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

‘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

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

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

With my love

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)

VIIDO – Visual Images, Identifications and Detections Office

MIT – Murder Investigation Team

Prologue

When he was a child, his mother used to take him for long walks along the towpath. She would cling to his hand, warning him to keep away from the water’s edge.

‘The river is very deep,’ she told him. ‘If you fall in, no one will be able to save you. The current will carry you away and you’ll never see me again.’

When he asked her why people walked near the river if it was dangerous, she smiled.

‘It’s easy because the path is flat,’ she replied, ‘and what makes it even more perfect is that it follows the river, so you can’t get lost.’

But there was more than one way to get lost. It was the week before his tenth birthday when they dragged his mother from the river. By the time she was discovered, it was too late to save her. She had been right. No one came to save her when she fell in the river. Forbidden to see her body, he became obsessed with reading about the effects of drowning. He wondered later whether it would have been less traumatic for him if they had allowed him to see her, but they never did. Instead, he was left to imagine her as she was pulled out of the river, grotesquely bloated and discoloured. Some of the pictures he found of people who had drowned gave him nightmares.

He never told anyone about his night terrors. He accepted that he was an orphan, and people were trying to look after him. But no one else seemed to worry that Death could come and take him at any time. His mother had understood that the end might arrive when he was least expecting it, with a squealing of brakes and voices yelling at him to ‘Look out!’, or sudden unexpected pain clamped across his chest as his heart ceased beating, or a misplaced step causing him to stumble and fall, cracking his head open and smashing his skull. But unlike his mother, he was a coward. Gradually he learned to suppress his memories, until the day his crippling fear returned, reminding him of his fragile grasp on life. Once again fear became his constant companion.

It took him a long time to realise that by taking control over life and death he could free himself from fear. One misty afternoon, he witnessed a woman plunging into the river. It could easily have been a tree root that had caused her to fall, or a tough weed growing on the uneven grass verge. There was no one else around to see the woman pitch into the fast-flowing water with barely time to shriek before she sank from view. Her head surfaced a few times, while her arms thrashed wildly, sending up sprays of water, until she disappeared from view. He watched the tragedy from a distance, curious to see how long the woman would continue floundering. He wondered whether his mother had struggled as vigorously to survive, or if she had simply surrendered to the current pulling her under. For a long time after that he slept well, but then memories of his mother returned to haunt him, and his nightmares returned.

1

Strolling along the river bank on a mild spring evening, he considered his options. It was less than an hour after the end of the working day, when many people would be on their way home, and the towpath was almost deserted. He didn’t mind the solitude. On the contrary, it suited him. The grass beside the path was overgrown and speckled with weeds dotted with flowers of purple and white, some so tiny they could only be seen close up in the fading light of evening. It was a peaceful scene, movement discernible only in the fluttering of leaves high overhead, and the flowing water. A middle-aged couple strolled along the path in the opposite direction, a young woman jogged by, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, and few moments later a bell shrilled as a man whizzed past, sturdy Lycra-clad legs cycling vigorously. After that, no one else appeared on the path as he made his way towards the old railway bridge. Perhaps it had something to do with the darkly flowing water, but by the time he reached the far side of the bridge, his mind was made up. He was going to kill George Gardner.

Having settled on a victim, he felt curiously calm. It was such a necessary step to take he wondered why it had taken him so long to come up with the idea. As far as he knew, George was an inoffensive character. But the Bible was wrong. Meekness never saved anyone. His mind racing, he turned and strode purposefully back along the towpath. The murder had to be meticulously planned, down to the very last detail, because the slightest mistake could betray him. It was common knowledge that murderers were usually apprehended straightaway. That was because most killers overlooked one vital consideration, making it almost inevitable the police would track them down. The killer’s motive was always an obvious clue to their identity. There was a case for thinking that people who were that stupid deserved to be caught. He, on the other hand, would remain anonymous, and so he would be able to carry out his plan without being caught. No one would even suspect him, because there would be nothing to connect him to his victim.

Once he had realised where other killers blundered, and, confident he could go ahead without risk of discovery, he resolved to study his unsuspecting victim for a few weeks. The more he knew about George, the easier it would be to catch him off guard. There was no reason for George to suspect he was being watched, but it was as well to be careful. One phone call to the police to say he thought he was being stalked and the whole plan would founder.

George went to work in town at the same time every weekday, before spending the evening at home with his wife. Every Friday, after work, he drove his wife to the supermarket, for their one excursion during the week. It seemed an excruciatingly dull existence, but it made watching him easy, at least in the short term. The longer he was watched, the greater the risk he would notice he was being spied on, which meant the surveillance couldn’t continue for long. On Saturday morning, George went for a bicycle ride. After about ten minutes, he turned off into wooded parkland near a football ground. Deep in thought, his unseen follower turned round and drove home. George was a creature of habit, so it was no surprise when he repeated his bicycle ride the next Saturday morning. Again, he rode through the woods, but this time he was not alone. Blithely he pedalled on, oblivious of his stalker silently following on a bicycle of his own.

It was early in the day, and there were few cars around. As they cycled into the woods, the noise of traffic faded, until all that could be heard was the quiet whirring of bicycle wheels, and hushed rustling in the trees and bushes surrounding them. Apart from the two cyclists, nothing stirred but leaves fluttering in the breeze. George’s stalker had not expected to despatch his victim so soon, but the opportunity presented itself and he seized it. There was no benefit to be gained from hesitation, and he had come prepared. He was always ready for such an eventuality. After all the planning and speculation, it was ridiculously simple to leap from his bicycle and steal up behind George, who had paused in his pedalling. If the victim had intended to offer himself up as a sacrifice, he could hardly have made it easier for his killer. Caught off guard, George wobbled precariously on his bicycle before crashing to the ground, hitting his head as he fell. Stunned from the blow, he allowed himself to be pulled along, groaning but otherwise unresisting. It was the work of a few seconds to drag him into the bushes.

Reaching a small clearing out of sight of the path, hidden among the trees, the killer pressed one knee on his victim’s chest to prevent him clambering to his feet. Whipping a scarf from his pocket, he held it over George’s face, covering his nose and mouth completely and pushing down with all his strength. If he had been able to prevent George from thrashing around with his arms and scrabbling at his sleeves, it would have been relatively easy. Above the scarf, George’s eyes rolled wildly as he writhed and struggled to free himself.

‘Keep still, damn you,’ his attacker muttered under his breath.

Resisting his victim’s pinching and grasping fingers, he refused to release the pressure on him for an instant. Hours seemed to elapse before George finally lay still. Even then his attacker did not release the pressure on George’s face until he was absolutely sure he was dead. At last he dropped the scarf and fell back on his haunches, his arms trembling from his exertion. Just to make absolutely sure, he pinched the inert figure sharply on the cheek. There was no response. Leaning forward he listened for any sound of breathing. All he could hear were the creaks and rustling of the trees. It was difficult to feel for a pulse through his glove, but George gave no sign that he was alive.

With an effort, he rolled the body over onto its front and pushed George’s head down so that his nose and mouth were pressed into the earth. No one could breathe with a face buried in mud. Just to make sure, he scraped the earth on either side of his victim’s head, patting it against the sides of his face to create a seal. If George moved his head, the mud casing would crumble, but he did not stir.

It was over. Sooner or later someone would stumble on the corpse, but no one would ever find his killer. Trembling with excitement, he slipped away unseen through the bushes. Reaching the road, he cycled home and waited to see how events unfolded. Whatever happened, he was safe. No one would suspect him of being responsible for George’s death. Why would they, when he had left no trace of his own presence behind? He had committed the perfect murder. It had been physically arduous, but other than that the task had presented no difficulties. On the contrary, it had been surprisingly easy. He wondered why he had waited so long before he had taken the initiative, when killing was so easy and afforded him such glorious relief because, for now, he had proved a match for Death. Not only that, his revenge was complete.

That night there were no nightmares.

2

The sun beat down on them as they sat on Geraldine’s balcony on an unseasonably balmy morning towards the end of March. A few wisps of white cloud drifted across the blue sky, and the breeze from the river was mild, heralding warmer days to come.

‘We seem to be skipping spring and moving straight to summer,’ Ian remarked. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I could sit here like this all day.’

Geraldine smiled. ‘The summer can’t come soon enough for me.’

Ian returned her smile. ‘Don’t wish your life away.’

‘Have you forgotten we’re off on our first holiday together, as soon as we can organise something?’ she asked.

She raised her arm and ran her fingers through his cropped hair. The white on his temples barely showed up against his fair hair.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten anything.’

‘We’re not getting any younger,’ she added, suddenly serious. ‘And we’ve wasted enough time.’

Although they had been colleagues working on murder investigations together for years, they had only recently started living together, some time after Ian’s divorce. Geraldine’s flat in the centre of York, overlooking the river, was large enough to accommodate both of them so Ian had moved in with her.

‘Come on,’ Ian said, ‘let’s have a look online and get something booked. We’ve been talking about it for long enough.’

‘Last night was the first time you mentioned it,’ she said, laughing.

‘Exactly,’ Ian replied with mock earnestness. ‘And we still haven’t reached a decision about where to go.’

‘We knew each other for sixteen years before you moved in here and now all of a sudden you’re impatient?’

‘Like you said, we have a lot of lost time to make up for,’ he replied. ‘I want to make the most of every moment.’

Still smiling, he stood up and pulled her towards him, but their embrace was interrupted by the shrilling of a phone.

‘Looks like booking that holiday may have to wait,’ Geraldine said after she had listened to the call. ‘Come on, no time to waste. We’ll have to grab something in the canteen later.’

‘What is it?’

Geraldine was already going indoors. ‘I’ll tell you about it on the way,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Leave the cups. I’ll clear up later.’

Ian followed her. As experienced detective inspectors working on serious crime, they knew that vital clues could be lost if they failed to respond promptly when summoned to a crime scene. They hurried inside to dress and drove together to the location they had been given. On the way, Geraldine told Ian what little she knew. The body of a man had been discovered in the woods, lying face down in the mud. It was possible he had collapsed and died of natural causes, but the team at the site suspected it was an unlawful killing.

‘What makes them suspect foul play?’ Ian demanded. ‘I’m not too happy about being dragged away from our holiday plans without good reason, not to mention my breakfast,’ he added ruefully.

‘You know as much as I do. We’re nearly there,’ Geraldine added, turning off the road into Rowntree Park.

The branches of trees that surrounded them were covered in thick foliage, casting dark shadows over the road. Shielded from the bright warmth of the sun, Geraldine shivered. A forensic tent had not yet been erected, and they pulled on their protective gear and followed a constable through the trees to where the corpse lay, as yet barely disturbed. Only the first constable on the scene had approached the body to check for vital signs and after him the duty medical examiner, who had inspected the man to confirm that he was dead.

‘He died this morning, by all accounts,’ a young scene of crime officer told them breathlessly, as they picked their way along the common approach path. ‘We think he was suffocated. That’s why it’s being treated as suspicious. He’s hardly likely to have dragged himself through the bushes and suffocated himself.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to become a detective?’ Ian asked him.

Geraldine glared at Ian. The scene of crime officer was trying to be helpful. There was no call to rebuff his youthful enthusiasm.

‘His bicycle was found a few yards away, on the path,’ the scene of crime officer continued, seemingly oblivious to Ian’s sarcasm. ‘At least, we think it was his. It’s been taken away for examination. If the bike hadn’t been spotted by a passing pedestrian, the body might not have been discovered for a while. We’ve questioned the man who found him, but he didn’t know anything. Here he is,’ he added, gesturing at a narrow gap in the trees through which they could see a man lying on his back, apparently staring up at the sky.

‘He’s been turned over,’ the scene of crime officer resumed. ‘He was found lying on his front, face down in the dirt.’ He paused, before adding, ‘It looked as though the earth was built up around his face, to make sure he couldn’t breathe.’

‘Who turned him over?’ Geraldine asked sharply.

‘We did that,’ the scene of crime officer replied. ‘The man who found him had enough sense not to touch the body. He told us he could see the man must be dead because his face was buried in mud, so he thought it was best not to go anywhere near him.’

Geraldine suspected this was the scene of crime officer’s first murder scene. A more experienced officer was unlikely to sound so exuberant about a dead body. She sighed. At forty she was older than many of her colleagues, and experienced enough in dealing with death to treat it with detachment. Not that she had ever been emotionally disturbed at the sight of a corpse. The dead had so many clues to offer up about the circumstances of their death, if the living could only interpret the signs accurately.

‘What do we know about him?’ Ian asked.

‘Only that he’s dead and he hasn’t been here very long, and he probably cycled here, left his bike on the path and crashed through the trees to get here.’

‘Crashed?’ Geraldine asked.

‘He might have been dragged,’ the scene of crime officer corrected himself. ‘The trees have been damaged and the undergrowth is flattened in places, more than if he’d just pushed his way through by himself.’

‘So it doesn’t look as though he came here to take a look around, or relieve himself. It’s possible he met his killer before he was attacked, and they made their way here together,’ Ian said.

The scene of crime officer nodded. ‘That’s a possibility,’ he agreed.

Geraldine glanced at Ian. Often squeamish around corpses, he looked merely solemn at the sight of this particular body. To be fair, it was less shocking than many murder victims they had seen. The dead man was not lying naked on a table with his guts spilling out, or a section of his brain exposed, nor was he covered in blood as a result of violent assault. On the contrary, he bore no obvious outward sign of physical trauma. His eyes were closed, and his lips were fixed in a rictus of death that strangely resembled a grin. Apart from a coating of earth clinging to his face, he could have been asleep. Taking care to avoid touching the bushes, Geraldine edged closer. Hopefully forensic examination of the scene would confirm whether the dead man had crashed or been dragged through the trees. The distinction was significant, and she was impatient to know exactly what had happened in the trees while the man was still alive.

It was difficult to judge the dead man’s age, with earth obscuring most of his features and soiling his hair. A small patch of mud had been brushed from around one side of his nose and mouth to reveal bruising which could have been caused by someone pressing against his face to suffocate him.

Correctly interpreting Geraldine’s expression, the young scene of crime officer pointed to a grey woollen scarf lying to one side of his head.

‘Do you think that was the murder weapon?’ she asked, staring at it.

The scene of crime officer shrugged and the shoulders of his protective suit stirred.

‘We think it probably was.’

Ian grunted. ‘Probably,’ he repeated. ‘Let’s wait until the post mortem. We don’t even know if he was suffocated yet. So far all we have is reasonable supposition.’

Leaving the forensic team to their work, Geraldine and Ian returned to the police station where the detective chief inspector had summoned them to a briefing. They drove there in silence, each of them lost in thought.

‘I wonder if he went to the woods alone.’ Geraldine broke the silence as they reached Fulford Road and turned in to the police car park.

‘We might be able to track his journey there, once we know where he lived,’ Ian replied, following her train of thought.

‘If he went there by himself, it could have been a chance attack,’ Geraldine said grimly.

‘If it was a mugging that went too far, we might never find his killer.’

‘The killer could have followed him there,’ Geraldine said.

They went inside, and made their way straight to the major incident room at York Police Station where the murder investigation team, headed up by Detective Chief Inspector Eileen Duncan, were gathering for their first briefing.

‘The dead man’s name is George Gardner,’ the square-faced detective chief inspector announced.

She looked around the room, fixing her eyes on each of the officers in turn, as though challenging them to contradict her. Accustomed to her senior officer’s prickly persona at work, Geraldine met Eileen’s gaze with equanimity. Not for the first time, she wondered whether she herself would have been more even-tempered with colleagues, had she been responsible for a serious investigation. Behind Eileen’s brusque facade Geraldine suspected the DCI was nervous. Glancing around, Geraldine noticed a young constable, Naomi Arnold, appeared cowed by Eileen’s air of belligerence and made a mental note to encourage her colleague. Naomi was a smart and ambitious young officer, who deserved to do well.

‘He was forty-one, Caucasian, living out towards Driffield,’ Eileen added. ‘You have his address. We are awaiting the results of the post mortem as we speak.’

Until they had more information, there was not much else to say and the officers dispersed to their separate tasks.

3

Geraldine always found it difficult to tell people their loved ones were dead. However sympathetically she shared the news, there was no way of mitigating the pain of such loss. In most cases, she felt as though she was witnessing mental anguish made palpable. On this occasion, she was conscious of the need to be particularly vague when speaking to the widow. Michelle Gardner’s husband was dead, but they did not know for certain that he had been murdered. It was just possible he had accidentally fallen off his bicycle, crawled through the undergrowth, and suffocated with his head buried in the earth.

‘Give me a corpse any day,’ she said to Ian, when she went to his office before she left to speak to Michelle. ‘At least they can’t suffer any more. What I find hard is having to tell people someone they love is dead.’

Ian merely shrugged when she said that. He had heard her mention her views on the matter many times. They both knew how he struggled to look at cadavers. Even after years of working in serious crime, viewing a post mortem made him nauseous. However many times Geraldine tried to encourage him to feel less disturbed by cadavers, it made no difference.

‘I prefer the living to the dead. I can’t help it,’ he told her. ‘It’s not a rational response.’

‘It seems quite rational to me,’ she replied. ‘None of us like coming face to face with the reality of our own mortality, and murder victims are not always a pretty sight. But the fact is, we’re all going to die one day, and there’s no getting away from it. At least we can try to do something useful with our lives, while we are still here.’

‘Well, thank you very much. Now you’ve really cheered me up,’ he said. ‘You know how the sight of a dead body upsets me. In fact, the only thing that will make me feel better right now is a live body.’

He pulled her towards him and tried to kiss her, but she wriggled determinedly out of his embrace.

‘Stop it, will you?’ she scolded him, smiling. ‘We’re at work. Someone might see.’

Leaving Ian’s office, Geraldine mentally prepared herself for the approaching ordeal. George Gardner had lived in a small red brick semi-detached property in Montague Street, not far from the River Ouse. The house had a neatly trimmed hedge in front of it, shielding it from the road. The front door was opened by a dainty little woman in an old-fashioned flared skirt, and matching green blouse. She stared enquiringly up at Geraldine, her expression barely altering at the sight of Geraldine’s identity card.

‘Can I come in?’ Geraldine asked.

Without a word, Michelle led the way into a tidy front room, which looked as though every surface had recently been dusted and polished. A pile of cookery books were stacked neatly on a gleaming wooden coffee table, beside an equally tidy pile of women’s magazines. When they were both seated, Michelle gazed incuriously at Geraldine without enquiring the reason for her visit. Perched on the edge of an upholstered armchair, Geraldine launched into a well-rehearsed speech, sharing the tragic news as gently as she could.

‘Dead?’ Michelle repeated, looking faintly baffled. ‘What are you talking about? He went for a bike ride. He’ll be back soon. Although he has been gone for rather a long time.’ She glanced at a carriage clock on the mantelpiece and shook her head. ‘He must have popped to the shops on his way home. He does that sometimes.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘He likes to surprise me with flowers or chocolate.’

Geraldine leaned forward and spoke very softly. ‘Listen to me, Michelle. I’m afraid your husband met with an accident while he was out.’

‘An accident? What do you mean? What sort of accident? No, don’t tell me, he wasn’t wearing his helmet, was he?’

‘No, you’re right, he wasn’t wearing a helmet,’ Geraldine sighed.

‘I warned him he’d fall off and bang his head one of these days, but he never listens to me,’ Michelle grumbled, her complacency momentarily disturbed. ‘Where is he now? Perhaps he’ll be more careful from now on. I warned him, you know. So where is he?’

Geraldine knew that by now George would be lying naked on a slab in the morgue, awaiting a post mortem. Perhaps his skull had already been sawn open, and the foul-smelling contents of his stomach inspected.

‘I’m afraid your husband suffered a fatal accident,’ she said, speaking as gently as possible. ‘George is dead.’

‘No, he can’t be. There must be some mistake. He was always so careful,’ Michelle replied, contradicting her previous statement. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Inspector.’

Geraldine explained the procedure for formally identifying the body, making it clear there was no doubt the dead man was George. He had been carrying a driving licence with his photograph in the wallet in his pocket. She did not add that the police were looking into the death. Although at first sight his death appeared to have been an accident, closer examination of the scene suggested that George might have been deliberately killed by a person or persons unknown. While Geraldine was expressing sympathy, she was conscious that as the dead man’s spouse, Michelle herself was the most likely suspect.

‘We argued about his wearing his helmet,’ Michelle was saying, as though she was angry with her husband for his recklessness, rather than shocked at hearing that he was dead. ‘He swore he would wear it, but he used to hide it. I bet if you look in the shed, you’ll find it there right now.’

She jumped to her feet and Geraldine followed her outside to a small garden. Michelle opened the door of a dilapidated wooden shed and began rummaging around inside among cardboard boxes, sets of tools, and several piles of old sheets and sacking. Shifting a large cardboard box to one side, she let out a triumphant cry.

‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘What did I tell you? Hidden away where he thought I wouldn’t notice it. If he’s hurt, he has only himself to blame. What was he doing, going out on his bike without wearing his helmet? If I warned him once, I must have warned him a thousand times not to go out without his helmet. But would he listen? Well, he’s going to have to listen to me after this. Getting the police involved, of all people. You tell him. He never listens to me.’

‘Michelle, George is dead,’ Geraldine said. ‘You can’t tell him anything any more. No one can.’

Michelle shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He can’t be. He was always so careful.’

There was nothing more to say to Michelle, who seemed too shocked and confused to take in what had happened. Having established that there was no one who could come and sit with Michelle, Geraldine took her back into the house and made her some tea.

‘Are you going to be all right?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. I’ll just wait here for George to come home,’ Michelle replied. ‘And when he does, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind for going out on his bike without his helmet. I warned him this would happen.’

Thoughtfully, Geraldine returned to the police station. She barely had time to describe Michelle’s odd behaviour to her friend and colleague, Ariadne, when they were summoned for a briefing.

‘She certainly sounds like an oddball,’ Ariadne said as they hurried along the corridor to the meeting room.

Geraldine nodded. ‘It could have been shock, but there was definitely something strange about her.’

The detective chief inspector’s square jaw was set in a solemn expression, her thin lips twisted as though she had a bad taste in her mouth, her small dark eyes glaring around the assembled team. On the wall behind her was an image of George Gardner, his face smeared with mud. There was something about the detective chief inspector’s expression that made it clear they were investigating a murder before she spoke.

‘Bruising around the mouth and nose indicate the victim was suffocated after falling off his bicycle.’

‘He could have been deliberately pushed off his bike,’ Ian pointed out.

‘Or pulled from behind,’ Naomi added, glancing at Ian.

‘Yes, of course,’ Eileen conceded. ‘In which case there ought to be evidence of contact on George’s clothes. Let’s keep an open mind and see what the forensic team comes up with. Geraldine, you saw his wife. What was your impression of her? Do we need to bring her in for questioning?’

Geraldine hesitated. Michelle had seemed very confused. When Geraldine had explained that George was dead, his wife had not appeared to comprehend what had happened.

‘But she knew where to look for her husband’s helmet,’ Geraldine concluded, describing how Michelle had found George’s cycling helmet.

Eileen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think she’s as confused as she makes out?’ she asked.

Geraldine hesitated again. ‘It’s impossible to say,’ she said at last. ‘Her reaction was certainly odd, but shock can make people behave strangely. Like you said, we need to keep an open mind for now. In the meantime, I think we should contact her GP and get someone to check on her.’

Eileen gave a brisk nod. ‘Why don’t you send an officer to have a word with her doctor?’ she agreed. ‘They can alert him to her current situation, and at the same time find out if she’s been diagnosed with dementia. Or anything else for that matter,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Let’s bear in mind that she might have hidden George’s helmet herself.’

‘That seems an unlikely way to murder someone,’ Naomi pointed out. ‘I mean, what if he hadn’t fallen off his bike?’

‘Unless he didn’t come off the bike accidentally,’ Ian said, reiterating his earlier theory about what had happened to George.

‘Plenty of people fall off bikes and come away with nothing worse than a few scrapes and bruises,’ a sergeant said. ‘It’s hardly a sensible way to try and kill someone.’

‘His wife doesn’t sound like a sensible person,’ Ariadne muttered, smiling at Geraldine.

‘At this early stage of the investigation anything’s possible,’ Eileen said firmly. ‘Now, let’s start gathering evidence. If George was murdered, as looks likely, then we need to find his killer as soon as possible, and that means we don’t overlook anything.’

4

Normally Geraldine would have asked a constable to question Michelle’s doctor. It was the kind of task she would confidently pass on to a bright young officer like Naomi, who impressed her as sharp and thorough in carrying out her duties. But since the GP’s surgery was on Geraldine’s way to the mortuary, and she did not anticipate the visit taking long, she decided to speak to the doctor herself. When Geraldine explained the purpose of her visit, the middle-aged receptionist scowled and informed her that the doctor with whom Michelle was officially registered was not at work that day. Another GP was available.

‘But I’m not sure why you insist on seeing a doctor,’ the receptionist added acerbically. ‘The doctors are very busy, and in any case medical records are strictly confidential, so there’s nothing anyone here will be able to tell you.’

Geraldine sighed. She had never enjoyed throwing her weight around with aggressive members of the public, and as she grew older she found the exercise of her powers increasingly wearing. But she could be tough when necessary.

Holding up her warrant card again, she spoke firmly. ‘I need to speak to a doctor now.’

‘Yes, well, all of our patients would like to be seen immediately by a doctor,’ the receptionist replied tartly, shaking her head so that her tight grey curls twitched.

A woman standing behind Geraldine muttered crossly that she was busy too.

‘Now if you’d like to take a seat and wait, the doctor will see you when she’s free,’ the receptionist added with an air of finality.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to wait,’ Geraldine began.

‘Then you’ll have to phone for an appointment and come back another time, like all our other patients,’ the receptionist snapped.

Geraldine leaned forward and spoke softly, hoping no one else would hear her. She had no wish to publicly browbeat the receptionist, however obnoxious she was.

‘If you refuse to comply, you will be escorted to the police station and charged with obstructing a detective inspector in the course of an investigation into a serious crime.’ She straightened up and raised her voice slightly. ‘Step out from behind your desk now.’

As she spoke, she took out her phone, ostensibly to request back up.

‘No, wait,’ the receptionist bleated, her hostility giving way to alarm, just as Geraldine had anticipated. ‘Dr Samuels will see you just as soon as she’s free. Any minute now. Please, just wait right there.’

A moment later a patient emerged from a consulting room and, true to her word, the receptionist directed Geraldine to go straight in. Dr Samuels was a thin young woman who gestured at a chair with bony fingers.

‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ she enquired pleasantly. ‘I understand you are requesting information about one of our patients?’

‘You’ve been notified about the death of George Gardner?’ Geraldine asked.

‘Yes, although we’ve not yet been advised about the circumstances of his death. I take it you’re here to discuss what happened to him?’

‘Not exactly. I just passed the news on to his widow, Michelle, who is also registered here. She seemed unable to process news of her husband’s death. Has she been diagnosed with any kind of mental condition that might cause her to struggle with understanding what has happened?’

The doctor shook her head. ‘You want to know if she’s suffering from some form of dementia?’ She tapped at her keyboard and checked her screen. ‘No, nothing like that. But shock can cause considerable confusion in the healthiest of minds.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about her that we ought to be aware of? Any periods of depression, or injuries that could have been indications of domestic abuse?’

The doctor raised her eyebrows. ‘Nothing that we are aware of.’ She turned and scanned down her screen. ‘Just the common reasons to contact us: flu jabs, an infected toe, shingles a couple of years ago. There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in our records, and no mention of any mental health issues.’

Geraldine nodded. ‘Very well, we’ll send an officer along to make sure she’s all right. I just wanted to check there wasn’t any history of abuse or mental problems, and that some kind of support wasn’t already in place. Well, thank you very much for your time.’

The information Geraldine had gleaned could easily have been given over the phone, and the visit had proved a waste of everyone’s time. Nevertheless, Geraldine had wanted to speak to the doctor in person, in case there was a scrap of information that had not been officially recorded. She did not regret the time she had spent at the surgery. Most detective work was thankless, because it just wasn’t possible to identify which seemingly pointless line of enquiry might result in an unexpected breakthrough. But her visit to the GP’s surgery had not thrown up a significant lead. Pointedly ignoring the receptionist, she strode across the waiting room and left. Reaching her car, she set off for her next stop: the mortuary.

The pathologist, Jonah Hetherington, greeted her with a smile and a cheery wave of a bloody hand.

‘Geraldine, allow me to thank you for sending me the cleanest corpse I’ve seen in a long time. There was hardly a mark on him. It’s a shame I had to make such a mess of him. Can you ever forgive me?’ he demanded, heaving a melodramatic sigh. ‘I’ve cleaned the mud off his face, but I don’t think it’s an improvement. What do you think?’

Geraldine looked down at the body, which was lying flat on its back. Apart from dark bruising around his mouth, he would have appeared uninjured, were it not for a neatly stitched gash on the side of his head.

‘You’ve made him look very respectable, Jonah,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Now, what can you tell me about him?’

‘Apart from the fact that he looked a lot more presentable when his face was covered in mud? Well, let’s see, he was a healthy enough fellow, fortyish, with no underlying medical conditions that I can find. He was quite fit, with good muscle tone in his legs, perhaps from running or cycling. He was suffocated with a woollen scarf that was found lying nearby, half buried in the earth. SOCOs picked up microscopic threads of wool from around his mouth and nose, and we found more where he had breathed them in. After he was killed he was rolled over on to his front and someone, I’m guessing his killer, scrabbled at the earth around his face to form a kind of seal. It appears to have been done to make sure he couldn’t recover and start breathing again. If that was intended to conceal the fact that he was suffocated, it failed miserably. The signs of suffocation are clear to see.’

Jonah leaned forward and pointed at the dead man’s mouth and nose, where the skin was discoloured.

‘You can see where the scarf was pressed tightly against his face,’ Jonah said. ‘The funny thing is, he doesn’t appear to have put up a fight.’

‘He was probably caught off guard,’ Geraldine replied. ‘He fell or was pushed off his bike before he was killed. Perhaps he was injured, or at least shocked, in the fall.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘Yes, there’s a severe contusion on the back of his head consistent with a fall from a bicycle. Not enough to kill him, but enough to knock him out or at least leave him feeling dazed.’

Jonah raised the head of the dead man to expose a discoloured patch of skin where the hair had been shorn.

‘That’s a nasty bruise,’ Geraldine said.

‘He must have fallen backwards off his bike.’

‘Do you think he was pulled off it from behind?’

‘I’ve shown you his injuries,’ Jonah said. ‘Working out how he came by them is your job. But if you ask me, I’d say that’s quite likely and would explain how he came to land on his head, without badly grazing his hands. If he was taken completely by surprise, he might not have had time to try and break his backwards fall.’

‘You said the blow on his head was enough to knock him out?’

‘It’s difficult to say for sure. He might have lost consciousness, or at least been stunned for a few minutes, or he might have just been momentarily shocked by falling.’

‘During which time the killer dragged him through the bushes, out of sight of the path, and suffocated him,’ Geraldine said.

‘That is certainly a plausible scenario. If the killer acted quickly enough, he might well have done all that before our chap here realised what was happening to him.’

‘Can you think of an alternative sequence of events that is equally likely?’

Jonah sighed. ‘It’s not my place to speculate about what might or might not have happened,’ he replied. ‘Dealing with the dark workings of the human mind is your area of expertise. I can only report on what I can physically see.’ He held up his bloody gloves.

Geraldine thanked the pathologist, who promised to let her know straightaway if the toxicology report came up with any information that could be of particular interest to the investigating team.

‘Let me know what you find, however trivial it seems,’ she said. ‘I want to know everything you find in there.’

‘Even his last cup of tea?’

‘Even his last cup of tea,’ she confirmed.

‘Your wish is my command.’

With a final smile and a wave, Jonah picked up a scalpel and turned back to his grisly work, whistling softly as he probed a bloody mess lying in a tray beside the body.

That evening, Ian flung himself down on the sofa while Geraldine brought in fish and chips, still in the paper from the takeaway restaurant. It had been a long day.

‘Let’s talk about a real holiday when this is over,’ she said as she put a tray on his lap. ‘Hopefully it won’t take long to get the investigation sorted and then we can really focus on booking something fabulous.’

Ian smiled at her. Before leaving the police station that afternoon, they had learned that a sample of DNA had been found on the scarf used to suffocate George. They had no match for the anonymous DNA, and no clue to the identity of its owner, other than that it belonged to a Caucasian male with light brown hair and brown eyes. If they could trace all the victim’s contacts and test them, there was a chance the case might be tied up quite quickly. Admittedly there was no proof that the DNA found on the body belonged to the killer, but it seemed likely. They both agreed that, with luck, the investigation would be over soon.

‘It seems fairly straightforward,’ Ian said. ‘And then I’m going to whisk you away on the best holiday you’ve ever had.’

Geraldine smiled. ‘Well, if that’s not an incentive to solve this case quickly, I don’t know what is.’

Murder investigations could drag on for months, but they were both hopeful that this one would be resolved quickly.

5

He was disappointed when George’s death failed to make the front page of the local paper. Inconsequential to the world at large, the event had been hugely significant for him. Watching his victim’s struggle had been one of the most exhilarating moments of his life, irreversibly changing everything around him. The whole world suddenly became vivid and filled with exciting possibilities. The earth seemed to gleam more richly, and the green weeds poking up from the ground grew startling in their brightness as George’s thrashing weakened and drew to an end. Whatever else happened, he had succeeded in taking a man’s life with his own hands. In that moment, he had been Death’s equal. Although no one else was ever going to connect him with George’s murder, he himself would always glory in the truth. And even if he was somehow, impossibly, tracked down, after he had served his sentence, and his ‘debt to society’ was paid, he would be a murderer. Nothing could ever change that. The act of killing a man was not merely something he had done; it changed his relationship with Death.

Still, he was not worried that he would be caught. He had laid his plans too carefully for that. After all, the police were only human beings with limited powers, and they were fallible, in spite of their armies of officers, and their impressive technology. The most sophisticated computer in the world was no match for the cunning of a single man. He had expected to enjoy a transient notoriety, hugging his secret to himself in the safety of his own home. If anything, he had been afraid there might be too much publicity. He had certainly never predicted this freakish lack of reaction to what had happened. There was a short article in the paper, which he read and reread, searching for more information. He was reassured to see that the police didn’t seem to know anything about the struggle that had taken place in the woods.

York resident, forty-year-old George Gardner, suffered a fatal injury as a result of a cycling accident in Rowntree Park on Saturday. He had lived in York all his life, and was well liked by his neighbours and associates. ‘If the victim had been wearing a safety helmet, there is every chance he would still be alive today,’ a police spokesman said. ‘We urge all cyclists to remember to wear helmets when out on the road.’

That was it: a short paragraph on page two of the local paper, and a brief mention he managed to find online. He ought to have been pleased the police didn’t suspect foul play. Far from investigating George’s death, they seemed happy to dismiss it as an accident. He appreciated that he had been given a reprieve, yet he couldn’t help feeling let down. He wanted to follow the case in the media, watching as the police cast around helplessly, before finally charging off in any number of wrong directions. The death might have attracted more attention if he hadn’t covered his tracks so well. Starting with the local news channel, he had envisaged the story hitting the national news. But now, thanks to police incompetence, even the local paper would dismiss the story. He tossed the paper aside in a fit of pique. Whoever was looking into George’s death must be blind as well as stupid. After a few moments, he calmed down. The so-called accident had only taken place on Saturday. There was still time for the police to become involved. He resolved to keep a close eye on the news, and look out for any further developments. He couldn’t believe there would be no more reports about it. Death should be more important than that.

His patience was rewarded. By Monday, things had moved on. The police had not actually stated they no longer believed George’s death was an accident. There was no mention of the words ‘murder’ or ‘unlawful killing’ in the reports he read. Nevertheless, the story had not gone away. On the contrary, the reports continued, repeating what had previously been published. The only development was that the police were asking for witnesses to come forward. That suggested they suspected there was more to this death than they had thought at first. He wasn’t surprised. It was unlikely the police would fail to realise something untoward had happened that day in the woods. Now all he had to do was sit at home, hidden and anonymous, watching as the investigation unfolded. But it was difficult to track down information. Most of what he was able to find in the media continued to reiterate what had already been published.

He wished he could follow the police activity in detail. Reading snippets in the papers was frustrating, but there was not much else he could do. There was no way he was going to return to the scene of the crime. He couldn’t understand why anyone did that. It was what murderers were expected to do, and it had always struck him as singularly stupid. He guessed that guilt drove them to self-destructive impulses. Unlike stereotypical murderers, he understood the wisdom of keeping away. He never lost his ability to think clearly; the fear of being caught was nothing compared to the terrors he had experienced in his life.

Yet he yearned to know more. As a small boy he had been helpless, banished from witnessing the scene of his mother’s death. Now, as an adult, he could at least watch someone else die. He was no longer shut out, and the experience felt like a cleansing, bringing him closer to the mother he had been unable to hold on to. But even that was not enough to satisfy his craving. He needed to know what happened next. He struggled to wait patiently, while they kept him in the dark. Somehow he had to find out what was happening to George, now he was dead. He wanted to know what he looked like now. He wondered if he could befriend a police officer, who might tell him how the investigation was progressing. The more he pondered the idea, the more it appealed to him. He thought a female police officer would be easiest to get round. If he could gain her trust, she might be indiscreet, especially if she believed he was romantically interested in her. He was confident he could manage that. He was not bad looking. Tall and slim, with blonde hair and blue eyes, he had never had much trouble attracting women. If they had interested him, he could have enjoyed a fling or two. But there had only ever been one woman in his life.

If he managed to befriend a policewoman, she would have to be an officer working on the team investigating George’s murder. He could not afford to take any risks pursuing someone who would not actually serve his specific purpose, and it might be dangerous if she thought he was asking too many questions. Still, once he had thought of it, the idea was tempting. It would be really entertaining to hear how the police were stumbling around in the dark, with no idea who they were really looking for. He would be like the proverbial fly on the wall. But he had no idea how to attract a policewoman without arousing suspicion. On balance, he reluctantly decided it would be sensible to keep away from the police altogether. He had carried out his plan, and could not afford to ruin things now, when everything was going so well. The fact was, the police were never going to arrest him. They wouldn’t even know where to look, unless he did something stupid. And he was too careful for that.

6

George had worked in