Rogue Killer E-Book

Leigh Russell

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

Seitenzahl: 449

Beschreibung

Experience the streets of York like never before in this gripping twelfth instalment of the acclaimed Detective Geraldine Steel series, a captivating journey that has enthralled millions of readers worldwide. There was so much blood. The dead man's clothes were saturated, his hands sticky. Blood lodged under his fingernails and fixed in the creases of his skin. By contrast, the gloves absorbed nothing, allowing the blood to slide around easily with satisfying oily smoothness. As a killer terrorizes the city, striking with brazen confidence, the police find themselves racing against time to stop the bloodshed. With clear DNA evidence at their fingertips, it should be a straightforward investigation, but the powers that be dismiss the deaths as mere muggings gone wrong, with a gang of youths becoming the prime suspects. Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel's intuition tells her there's something more sinister at play. While her colleagues dismiss her theories, Geraldine is determined to uncover the truth. As the body count rises, each falling victim to seemingly indiscriminate attacks, the net tightens around the muggers, leading to a gripping showdown with devastating consequences. But even as justice is seemingly served, the true killer still lurks in the shadows, evading capture. With time not on her side, Geraldine Steel embarks on a relentless pursuit of justice, tracking down a crucial witness who may hold the key to solving the case. However, danger lurks around every corner, and Geraldine soon realizes that her own life is in peril. Has the hunter become the hunted? For fans of gripping crime fiction authors like Angela Marsons, Mel Sherratt, and LJ Ross, this heart-stopping thriller is a must-read. Leigh Russell delivers a masterful tale of suspense and intrigue that will keep you guessing until the final page. All the Geraldine Steel books can be read as stand-alone novels.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1

2

3

4

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Also by Leigh Russell

A Letter From Leigh

About the author

Copyright

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No Exit Press

Landmarks

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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

‘Agreat 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 withinClass Murderfor 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 takeon 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 Shortis 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

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his medical advice, and all my contacts in York for their help.

My thanks also go to Ion Mills, Claire Watts, Clare Quinlivan, Clare Holloway, Katherine Sunderland, and all the dedicated team at No Exit Press for their continued support, and continuing belief in Geraldine Steel. I could not ask for a stronger or kinder team of experts to help with Geraldine Steel.

Finally I would like to pay tribute to my brilliant editor, Keshini Naidoo, without whom Geraldine and I would not have survived. We have come a long way together and are not done yet!

Prologue

There was so much blood. The dead man’s clothes were saturated, his hands sticky. Blood lodged under his fingernails and fixed in the creases of his skin. By contrast, the gloves absorbed nothing, allowing the blood to slide around easily with a satisfying oily smoothness.

Not far away a car horn beeped.

With a sudden sense of urgency, hands that had moved with such assurance a moment ago now fumbled to remove gloves slippery with blood, peeling them delicately across palms and down the fingers to avoid the wet surfaces touching any skin. Stepping carefully across an inert trickle of blood, the killer strode away from the alley, leaving behind a heap of flesh and sodden fabric.

A solitary car disappeared round a corner, leaving the street deserted.

1

Striding home through the dark streets of York with a bloody plastic cape and rubber gloves concealed inside a polythene bag in his rucksack, he congratulated himself on a successful outing. He had come a long way since leaving the house where he had spent his unhappy childhood. He had done his best, but even then he had known that the cats he killed had been paving the way for other victims. At that time he had been forced to suffocate his victims, as he couldn’t return home covered in blood. Because the most annoying aspect of his life back then was that whenever he flung himself through the front door, bag on his back and blond fringe flopping over his forehead, his parents would be there, waiting…

He turned away from his parents, refusing to look at them, certain they would crush his excitement. Glancing up, he gave a defiant smile at his father’s reflection frowning at him in the mirror. If they persisted in worrying about him when he stayed out late, that was their problem. It wasn’t fair of them to spoil his fun.

He had given up insisting that it was his life to live as he pleased. Instead he had resolved to ignore them. In any case, they didn’t know the half of it. He took risks they knew nothing about. But the pay-off was worth all the preparation. His parents would never understand. No one would. In their small-minded way, people like them would assume he was driven by a sordid sexual urge, but nothing could be further from the truth. More intense than anything they could imagine, his pleasure was momentous; he had learned to exercise power over life itself. Compared to the triumph of a kill, all other experiences were petty.

Despite all their questions, he never told them where he was going or who he was seeing. For a long time he had simply told them he was meeting his ‘mates’. They didn’t need to know more than that.

‘Have you any idea what time it is?’ his father asked severely.

When he didn’t answer, his mother spoke, her voice shrill with anxiety.

‘You know it’s nearly two o’clock. Where have you been? One night you’re going to get yourself in trouble. You could be attacked, and left for dead in a gutter, and we’d know nothing about it until the police knocked on the door to tell us you’d been killed. You have to come home at a sensible time. You’ll be the death of us with all this staying out late. We need to get to bed –’

‘Oh, give it a rest, will you? If you want to go to bed, who’s stopping you? Did I ask you to wait up for me? What’s your problem? Nothing’s going to happen to me.’

Even though he was not quite sixteen, he hated the way they made him sound like a petulant teenager. He was so much more than that: a master of life and death.

‘You can’t say that,’ she replied.

‘Well, I just did.’

‘Don’t be flippant with us, son,’ his father snapped. ‘The point is, however independent you think you are, you don’t know what might happen to you. No one does. A youngster like you, out on the streets on your own, you’ve no idea who might be out there, and what they might be after. People get assaulted, and young boys are especially vulnerable.’

They had been through the argument many times without reaching a resolution, but his parents refused to give up.

Forcing a smile, his father said, ‘Why don’t you at least let me come and pick you up, when you want to stay out late?’

‘You’re having a laugh. You? Come and pick me up? Not bloody likely. You’d spoil everything.’

‘Well, I could come and meet you somewhere then, if you like. Jesus, you must know you’re putting yourself at risk going out on your own at night. You’re only fifteen, and you don’t know anything of the world yet. Why don’t you at least tell me where you are, so I can come and give you a lift home? For your mother’s sake, if nothing else. You know she worries about you being mugged.’

‘What if one of these muggers you’re so worried about attacked you?’ He spat the words out. He wasn’t laughing now. ‘You’re just as likely to be mugged as me, you know. Now, stop pestering me, because I told you nothing’s going to happen. Not to me, anyway.’ He turned away to hang up his coat. ‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ he resumed, turning back to face them. ‘It’s not going to work. You don’t own me. I’m not a child. You can’t control me anymore.’

Seeing his father cower backwards when he lifted his hand to pull off his scarf, he grinned, his good humour restored.

‘You thought I was going to hit you just then! You did, didn’t you? And you think you can scare me! Ha!’

He snapped his fingers in the air with a faint click. His mother stepped forward, one hand raised, but he stood his ground, taunting her.

‘What are you going to do? Hit me? That’s why you go on and on and on about something happening to me, because that’s what you want, to see me punished. You’d like me to suffer, just to prove you were right.’

‘Don’t talk such nonsense. You know that’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He held out his arm to display a series of scratches. ‘What’s this then?’

His father shook his head in disgust. ‘You know perfectly well you told us a cat scratched you. Now, I’ll ask you again, where have you been all this time?’

‘Oh, give it a rest, old man. Have you got any idea how stupid you sound, asking the same questions, over and over again?’

With a flick of his head he tossed their sour protests aside, and his long fringe spun around his head. He stroked it into place with the flat of his hand, enjoying the feel of its sleek softness. Until he was old enough to do as he pleased, his parents had never allowed him to grow his hair long enough to cover his ears. That was just one of many reasons why he hated them. As though it should be up to them to control his appearance! Now they had lost their authority over him, they were nothing in his eyes. Less than nothing.

He understood their efforts to confine him were driven by anxiety, but he was different from them. He was fearless. Ordinary people like his parents could have no idea what he was capable of achieving. They didn’t know him at all. No one did. They were never going to understand that there was no need to be concerned on his account. They should be worrying about their own safety while he was living under their roof.

2

‘It’s so dull around here,’ Ariadne grumbled. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ she added with a slightly embarrassed laugh, ‘but you know what I mean.’ She lowered eyes as dark and impenetrable as Geraldine’s.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Geraldine said.

Neither of them admitted out loud that they had chosen to work in serious crime to avoid sitting behind a desk. Of course no one was pleased to hear that an innocent victim had been killed, but the job could be tedious when they weren’t working on a murder case. What made the time pass even more slowly for Geraldine was that she didn’t know anyone in York outside of her work colleagues. Her lifestyle had changed significantly over the course of the past year. Demoted from the rank of detective inspector in the London Metropolitan Police force, she had relocated to York where she now worked as a detective sergeant. Only her unswerving commitment to her work had sustained her throughout what had been a very difficult year. Now, for a change, her work life had been quiet for a couple of months, allowing her to relax and enjoy exploring the city of York, and get to know her colleagues.

To some extent, she and Ariadne had been thrown together as their desks stood opposite one another. Whenever Geraldine glanced up, she saw her colleague’s dark head lowered over her desk. Sometimes they both looked up at the same time, and exchanged smiles. Geraldine was pleased to have made a new friend at work. In her mid-thirties, Ariadne was only a few years younger than Geraldine, and they were both single. They even looked vaguely similar, with dark hair and eyes, although Geraldine wore her hair short while Ariadne’s glossy curls touched her shoulders. Sometimes they went out together for an evening, but when they weren’t occupied with an investigation, Geraldine’s weekends were usually spent visiting family. Although these were social calls, she spent more time on the road than anywhere else, driving all the way to London to see her identical twin, and even further to Kent to visit her adopted sister.

Geraldine was used to batting away antagonism. With years of experience, it wasn’t difficult to distance herself from extreme animosity, which she understood was directed against her office as a detective sergeant working in a serious crime unit, and not personal. Yet somehow, where her twin sister was concerned, she struggled to keep her emotions under control. It disturbed her to know how easily Helena could upset her. Apart from their physical similarity, they couldn’t have been less alike. Geraldine had spent her adult life in the service of justice. The identical twin she had only recently met was a recovering heroin addict, involved in petty crime of one kind or another for longer than Geraldine had been a police officer.

Geraldine was startled when Ariadne interrupted her musings to ask whether she wanted to take a break and go for a coffee.

‘Sorry if I disturbed you, but you can’t think about work all the time,’ Ariadne added, laughing, and Geraldine gave a guilty smile because she hadn’t been thinking about work, but about her twin sister.

They were sipping coffee and Geraldine was listening to Ariadne describe the Greek island where her mother had grown up, when they were summoned to the major incident room. They glanced wordlessly at one another, aware that so peremptory a summons most likely signified a murder on their patch. Moments after they arrived, the detective chief inspector strode in. Eileen Duncan was a broad-shouldered, forceful woman. Sharp features in her square face were framed by dark hair that was turning grey. She gazed around at the assembled team with a faintly aggressive expression that Geraldine suspected masked an underlying anxiety. The mood in the room was sombre, and everyone fell silent as Eileen spoke.

‘A body was discovered early this morning in Pope’s Head Alley, one of the snickelways.’

‘Snickelways are narrow alleyways,’ Ariadne whispered. ‘You’ll find them all over town.’

Geraldine grunted in response. Having lived in York for nearly six months, she had studied the local area and its history, and was familiar with the network of narrow passageways that criss-crossed the city streets.

‘It’s one of the oldest snickelways in the city,’ another sergeant murmured, as though that somehow made the murder more heinous.

‘We’ve closed it off at both ends, but there’s not much room to manoeuvre along there. It’s less than a metre wide.’

They all listened intently as the detective chief inspector went on to give details of the site where the body had been found, in a passageway running between Peter Lane and High Ousegate.

‘Check your tasks with the duty sergeant and keep everyone updated with anything you discover. We need to find out what happened, and quickly.’ With that exhortation, the detective chief inspector swept out of the room.

‘Let’s hope this one’s over and done with soon,’ Geraldine muttered. ‘I’ve got a holiday booked next month.’

‘You can still go away if you’ve booked the time off,’ Ariadne said.

Geraldine didn’t answer but she knew that once she was involved in a murder investigation she could never walk away, not even for a day, let alone two weeks.

She had mixed feelings when she saw that she would be working with her ex-colleague, Ian Peterson. They knew one another well, having worked together in the past when she had been an inspector and Ian had been her sergeant. Now their roles had been reversed, thanks to his advancement and her own demotion. At times she struggled to remember that he was her senior officer. She wasn’t sure whether he sometimes came across as bombastic because he also found the situation awkward, and felt the need to assert his authority over her. It was equally possible that he had become more authoritarian with everyone as he moved up the career ladder.

Whatever the reason for the change in his attitude towards her, she had come to terms with her disappointment at the reception he had given her on her arrival in York, and the realisation that she had evidently valued their friendship more than he did. While not unfriendly, he had hardly greeted her arrival with the enthusiasm she had been foolish enough to anticipate. She told herself that beyond her hurt ego she didn’t really care. But however hard she tried to suppress her feelings, she knew that Ian mattered to her, perhaps more than any other man she had ever met.

Pulling on protective shoes, she passed through the cordon at the end of Pope’s Head Alley and entered the narrow passageway behind Ian. It was enclosed on both sides by high brick walls, almost like a tunnel, except that it was open to the sky. As they turned a corner, a couple of uniformed officers stood aside to let them through. There was barely enough room to squeeze past them.

‘It’s just up there, towards High Ousegate,’ one of the constables said.

Geraldine followed Ian across the plastic stepping plates of the common approach path lining the passageway, until they reached the site.

She noticed the blood first. Camouflaged on red-brick walls enclosing the snickelway, the scarlet runnels were startlingly brilliant against grey paving stones on the ground. As she looked down at the dead man, the high walls seemed to close in on her and the scene took on a dreamlike quality. A dark puddle had pooled beside the dead man’s head. Nothing about the shape or colouring of the body looked even vaguely human. Only the short mousy hair, crusty with dried blood, indicated that the hump of clothes at her feet had once been a person.

For a few seconds she stood perfectly still, taking in every detail of the scene. The crime team who were on their way would struggle to work in such a confined space, photographing the body and searching every centimetre of the passageway for evidence, but for now the time was hers. High Ousegate was closer than Peter Lane, and from the position of the body she thought the dead man had probably entered the alleyway from the Peter Lane end. The cause of death wasn’t immediately obvious, although the blood indicated he had been stabbed.

The silence was disturbed by a faint cacophony that grew in volume behind her. Two white-coated scene of crime officers appeared around the bend in the snickelway.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Ian said.

Geraldine nodded. There was barely room for her and Ian to stand side by side against the wall. Two more white-coated officers appeared in front of them, on the far side of the body. They manoeuvred their way past the officers waiting behind them and returned to Peter Lane.

‘Phew,’ Geraldine said as they emerged back on to the street. ‘That was tight.’

‘And bloody,’ Ian muttered.

Peter Lane was busier than it had been when they arrived. People were hurrying past on their way to work, most of them barely glancing at the cordon across the lane. As she entered the bustling street, Geraldine felt as though she was waking from a nightmare.

They drove back to the police station in silence. Without evidence there was nothing useful to discuss, only speculation. Once they knew the identity of the victim, and the details of his violent death, they would be in a position to consider what had happened. If they had witnessed the victim of a mugging, as seemed probable, they could only hope the killer had left clear traces of DNA behind, enabling them to find a match straightaway.

‘That was a vicious attack,’ Ian said as they drew up in the police station car park. He shuddered. ‘Let’s hope we get him quickly.’

‘Or her,’ Geraldine replied.

Ian frowned. ‘That seems unlikely but, either way, we don’t want a violent psychopath loose in the city.’

Geraldine didn’t say what she suspected they were both thinking. They were responsible for protecting the innocent, and if this was not a one-off crime of passion but a random assault, other innocent lives might be at risk. The many alleyways that criss-crossed the city of York were quaint and historically interesting. She hoped they had not become a hunting ground for a dangerous killer.

3

After a hurried lunch in the canteen, Geraldine attended a briefing. Not all of her colleagues were there when she reached the incident room, and the detective chief inspector, Eileen Duncan, had not yet arrived. A young constable, Naomi, was whispering to Ian, so Geraldine walked past them to join Ariadne who was standing by herself at the side of the room. They had barely had time to exchange a greeting when Eileen entered. Striding past them all, she made her way to the front of the room where she stood looking around at the assembled team.

‘It seems we’re looking at a street crime that went too far,’ she said. ‘We all know about the spate of attacks that have been happening recently. There have been several accounts of victims being threatened with a knife in the course of a mugging and there’s nothing to suggest this was anything other than an unfortunate victim who tried to resist an approach from this criminal gang. With the increase in violent assaults on the streets, this was a fatality waiting to happen. We need to find this gang of muggers and put a stop to them before things escalate any further.’

Geraldine wasn’t sure how much further the situation could escalate, considering the latest stabbing had been fatal, but she understood what the detective chief inspector meant. The past few months had seen a series of muggings in York. Witness reports suggested that a gang of youths armed with knives was responsible, but so far no one had been apprehended. The police hadn’t even identified any suspects. But then, none of the victims had been murdered until now. This death catapulted the situation from an investigation into street muggings into a completely different league. The Major Crimes Unit was involved, with access to vastly enhanced resources.

‘We’re not going to let the grass grow under our feet,’ Eileen said, as though the team previously investigating the muggings had been idle. ‘It looks as though the mugger was disturbed, because the victim wasn’t robbed this time. He still had his phone and his wallet on him, and they were easy to find in the pockets of his jeans. So at least we know who he is.’

The victim was a thirty-two-year-old history teacher who had lived in York with his wife. Nothing in his life so far had linked him to any criminal activity. Everything about him indicated that he had been an innocent victim. But of course they all knew that appearances could mask a very different reality.

‘So are you saying you don’t think the attacker intended to kill his victim, and ran off in a panic when he realised what he had done?’ Ariadne suggested.

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘Or perhaps this wasn’t a mugging at all,’ Geraldine added softly.

‘There’s nothing so far to suggest this was anything other than a mugging gone wrong,’ Eileen replied, a little too firmly.

Geraldine hesitated to challenge her superior officer, but the absence of footprints leading away from the scene bothered her.

‘The ground around the body was so bloody,’ she said. ‘I just don’t see how someone running off in a panic could have quit the scene without leaving a single footprint.’ She frowned. ‘He must have – oh, I don’t know – changed his shoes before he left the scene? And that doesn’t sound like someone in a panic to get away.’

‘It’s hardly likely he would have stopped to change his shoes,’ Eileen agreed.

‘Not if it was a mugger,’ Geraldine said. ‘But what if that wasn’t what happened? What if this victim was deliberately targeted in a carefully planned attack?’

‘You’re suggesting this was murder?’ Eileen asked, her tone tinged with hostility.

Geraldine shrugged. ‘I’m raising the possibility because it just doesn’t look like an opportunistic mugging.’

Eileen didn’t disagree but merely concluded that they needed more information. In the meantime, knowing the victim’s identity gave them plenty to do.

‘And there’s the knife to follow up. We know a great deal about it already.’

The assembled officers nodded at one another. A couple of constables muttered under their breath. All of them had read the report. Microscopic fragments of metal had been detected in the victim’s throat, indicating that the blade had been recently sharpened.

‘And we have a DNA sample on the victim’s sleeve where it might have brushed against the killer. So let’s get going. We have a lot to do,’ Eileen said. ‘We need to put an end to all this.’

Eileen was clinging to the theory that they were investigating a mugging that had got out of hand, but Geraldine couldn’t help thinking the killer’s departure from the scene had been too slick for an accidental killing. There was nothing to be gained by challenging the detective chief inspector’s opinion again without further grounds so, for the time being, Geraldine decided to wait and see how the evidence panned out.

The duty sergeant allocated tasks and Geraldine set off to speak to the pathologist who was conducting the post mortem. Had her long-standing friend and colleague, Ian, not been squeamish at post mortems, he might have accompanied her. As it was, she didn’t mind going to view the body alone. She sometimes wondered at her own indifference to corpses, but it was the living who disturbed her, not the dead who were past suffering and pain. Besides, there was a practical reason for attending post mortems since murder victims could provide crucial evidence about their killers.

‘One stab wound,’ the pathologist, Jonah Hetherington, said without pausing to greet her as she entered the room.

His calm fascination with cadavers made her feel less uncomfortable with her own dispassionate response to the dead.

‘It’s a neat job,’ he went on, almost as though he admired the killer’s handiwork. ‘The killer appears to be skilled at using a knife. Someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing is more likely to end up with a gory mess.’

‘There was a lot of blood at the scene.’

‘Even so, the wound is quite neat.’

‘Are you saying you think the killer was a professional?’

‘You mean, a hired killer?’

‘Well, no. I meant, do you think he was killed by someone used to wielding a knife? A butcher, or a surgeon perhaps?’

Jonah chuckled. ‘Or a pathologist?’

She returned his smile.

‘No,’ he shook his head, serious once more. ‘All I can say is that this was a deft incision, but I don’t think we can draw any useful conclusions from the nature of the wound. It could have been luck that the first strike proved fatal.’

‘Not very lucky for him,’ Geraldine muttered, nodding at the body.

‘Well, no. Not lucky for him, except that he probably wouldn’t have known much about it. Bleeding profusely and unable to breathe, he would have lost consciousness fairly quickly. The neck was sliced through, severing the carotid artery and the windpipe with one slash of a sharp blade.’

‘Like I said, there was a lot of blood.’

Jonah grunted. ‘Yes, I saw the pictures.’

‘Which surely makes it unlikely an opportunistic assailant would have left the scene without a trace.’

Jonah raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say there wasn’t a trail of bloody footprints leading to the villain’s hideout?’

Geraldine laughed. ‘What else can you tell us about the killer?’

‘You want a description?’

‘That would be good for starters. And how about his name and address while we’re at it?’ She laughed again. ‘But seriously, is there anything you can tell us? Anything definite? Anything likely? Anything even vaguely possible…’ She stared gloomily at the body. ‘There don’t seem to be any defence wounds.’

‘No, you’re right. Just the one wound that killed him pretty quickly.’

‘Isn’t that unusual in a mugging? Wouldn’t you expect him to have tried to fight back?’

‘If the victim had been sober the absence of defence wounds would suggest he was taken by surprise, but our man here had been drinking so heavily it’s hard to say whether he knew what was happening or not. The killer could have taken his time over it, his victim was so pissed. He was killed around midnight, and my guess is he’d been drinking all evening, on an otherwise fairly empty stomach. The killer attacked suddenly, with one lunge, and I’d say the poor bloke was dead before he even realised what had hit him.’

Geraldine frowned, picturing the white lump of flesh on the table clothed and making his way along the snickelway, so drunk he was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Staggering and swaying, maybe whistling as he made his way unsteadily along the lane, he encountered a shadowy figure. As the two of them attempted to manoeuvre their way past one another in the narrow space, the stranger whipped out a knife, took aim and slashed. It would have been over in seconds.

‘Do you think it was a man? A woman?’

Again Jonah shook his head. ‘Nothing about the attack to suggest the gender of the assailant.’

‘Forensics have come up with DNA that might be helpful,’ she said.

Jonah looked up and smiled. ‘Now she tells me.’ But of course he already knew about the DNA. ‘So what else have you been hiding from me?’

‘Other than that we’re looking for a Caucasian male, we’re still working in the dark. The killer seems to have vanished without leaving a trace.’

‘Isn’t that unusual?’

She drew in a deep breath. ‘It might suggest that this wasn’t just a stray strike in a mugging, but the result of a more carefully planned attack.’

‘That sounds like bad news.’

‘It’s just my opinion. A hunch, if you like. Don’t quote me on it. The boss is convinced this was a mugging that went badly wrong. Don’t let on that I have a different theory.’

Jonah nodded. ‘Silent as the grave.’

‘Is there anything else you’ve noticed that might be at all helpful?’

He sighed. ‘I’m not a wizard, Geraldine. You know all about the fragments of metal we found embedded in his throat?’

‘Yes. Meaning the knife had recently been sharpened.’

‘It was certainly sharp. The blade sliced very neatly through his windpipe. But I’m not telling you anything new.’

‘Well, if you come across anything else, just call me.’

Returning to her desk she wrote up her report as factually as possible, saying nothing about her disappointment with Jonah’s inconclusive findings, then went to find Ian to express her frustration aloud.

‘I don’t see why you’re so bugged. The post mortem has confirmed what we already knew,’ Ian said. ‘The victim was drunk as a lord, and killed with one slash of his throat. Tolerate street muggings, and sooner or later something like this is bound to happen. That’s why we have to redouble our efforts to put a stop to it.’

Like Eileen, he believed this death had been the result of a mugging that had gone too far.

‘There are things about this incident that just don’t add up,’ Geraldine insisted. ‘This wasn’t a mugging gone wrong. There’s something else going on here.’

‘Why? Because the victim wasn’t robbed?’

‘Yes, that’s part of it. But there’s more to it than that. Why did the mugger disappear without leaving a trace? How come there wasn’t a single bloody footprint leaving the scene?’

‘He could have taken his shoes off when he realised he’d stepped in blood and was going to leave a trail of footprints leading back to his house. All that tells us is that he wasn’t a complete idiot, more’s the pity. It makes life more difficult for us, but there’s nothing more to it than that.’

‘It could mean this attack was deliberate.’

‘I think you’re reading more into it than the evidence warrants.’

There was no point in continuing the discussion. Only hard proof could establish what had really occurred that night, but so far all the evidence was inconclusive. They would have to wait for the results of the forensic examination of the scene and hope it could provide them with some helpful information.

4

‘The point is, the fucking point is –’ Daryl broke off to take a swig of tepid beer.

He tipped his head right back and light from the naked bulb shone on his pale forehead as he straightened up. He was clutching the bottle so tightly the dints in his knuckle bones were visible.

‘The point is?’ Carver repeated, fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh while his face grew taut with unspoken menace.

At nineteen, and the oldest of the three boys, he was sprawled in the only comfortable seat in the garage, an armchair upholstered in faded red velvet, threadbare yet retaining a vestige of past opulence. As though to remind the others of the reason for his nickname, he took out the knife that was said to have killed a man. Daryl made a show of studying the label on his beer bottle, but Carver knew the younger boy was watching the blade as it flicked in and out, in and out, with a barely audible clicking.

Daryl’s hand shook as he leaned forward to set his bottle down on the floor. A solitary bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. His eyes darted around the sparsely furnished garage, seeking inspiration. His gaze lingered for a second or two on the dirty boards nailed over the window, before it alighted on the third boy in the room. Squatting on the floor, Nelson turned away and spat, refusing to answer Daryl’s mute plea.

‘The point?’ Carver prompted him again, holding up his knife and touching the tip of the sharpened blade with one finger. ‘What is your point, Daryl?’ He leaned forward. ‘What is the point of you, Daryl?’ Proud of his pun, he repeated it, his teeth bared in a grin.

‘The point is, they’re gonna think it was us shivved that dude.’

Carver laid his knife down on his leg, the blade pointing towards Daryl. The handle gleamed darkly.

‘What you talking about? You off your face? Who’s gonna think it was us?’

‘The pigs, man.’ Daryl glared, giving up the attempt to conceal his agitation. ‘They been looking for us. I seen it on the news, man. A gang of muggers they called us. I heard it with my own ears, man. They’re out there looking for us.’

‘They haven’t found us yet,’ Nelson pointed out complacently, without turning round.

Carver paid no attention to the interruption. This was between him and Daryl.

‘And now some dude’s been shivved,’ Daryl went on, his terror of Carver momentarily overtaken by fear of the police. ‘They’re gonna think it was us done it. A street mugging gone wrong is what they said. I’m telling you, if we get nicked, they’re gonna do us for killing that stiff.’

‘They can’t pin it on us without any evidence,’ Nelson said, drawing out the final sound in a hiss.

Daryl shook his head, while a snarl of laughter rumbled up from somewhere deep in his guts.

‘They can pin anything they want on guys like us,’ he said. ‘And I’m telling you, they’re gonna be like dogs on heat trying to pin that murder on someone. You think we can slug it out with the pigs? We’re the obvious scapegoats. They’ve got to nail this crime on someone and who’s gonna leap to defend us? Think about it. The dude croaked. They don’t give a shit that it wasn’t one of us done for him.’

‘Who says it wasn’t one of us?’ Carver said.

He picked up his knife and began flicking the blade again, in and out, in and out, a slick well-oiled weapon. Three pairs of eyes stared at the moving sliver of metal.

‘The dude’s dead,’ Daryl persisted. ‘I seen it –’

‘Yeah, yeah, you seen it on the news. And they’re saying it was us done for him.’ Carver grinned. ‘That means we’re big news, man. Everyone’s gonna know about us.’

‘That means they’re gonna be hunting for us, man,’ Daryl cried out, losing his grip on the last vestiges of his self-control.

‘Don’t talk shit,’ Carver growled. ‘You’d best shut your face unless you wanna seriously piss me off.’

Daryl subsided, grumbling under his breath.

Without stirring from his seat or raising his voice, Carver seemed to swell to fill the space between them. ‘What’s that you say, boy? If you lost your nerve, you just come out with it right now.’

‘Nothing,’ Daryl mumbled. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’

Nelson flapped his elbows, clucking and sniggering.

Lifting his bottle to his lips, Daryl watched Carver through narrowed eyelids.

Nelson rose to his feet in one lithe movement. ‘We run out of booze.’ The other two boys ignored him. ‘And we run out of fags.’ He stretched his skinny legs.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Carver asked, his eyes still fixed on Daryl.

‘I told you, bro. We run out of fags.’

Carver’s eyes didn’t move. ‘Sit down.’

‘I’m dying for a smoke, man.’

For a moment Nelson held his ground. He knew he was useful, because he could fix almost anything. It was Nelson who had tapped into the electricity supply of a neighbouring property to give them a light overhead.

‘I said, sit down.’

Nelson hesitated, nearly said something, then glanced at the switchblade in Carver’s hand and complied. He crouched down, eyes on the floor, hands dangling between his skinny knees, eyebrows lowered in a scowl.

From outside came the noise of a car engine that revved and roared off down the road, while in the room the air grew heavy with silence. Somewhere far away a siren wailed. The three boys stiffened almost imperceptibly. For a few minutes no one stirred, then the faint clicking resumed, the blade slipping in and out, in and out. Daryl began to fidget, his gaze shifting from the stain on the carpet to the blade in Carver’s hand, and back again.

At last Carver spoke. ‘What now?’

Daryl shrugged without looking up. ‘We wait till they pin that murder on some other fucker and we’re cool.’

‘I’m cool,’ Carver turned to Nelson. ‘You cool, blad?’

‘I’m cool.’

‘So what we gonna do, genius?’ Carver asked.

‘If you’re asking me,’ Daryl replied, with a burst of frantic animation, ‘I’d say the best thing we can do is lay low for a while. No one’s come after us yet. They don’t know who we are. We just stay out of trouble until the heat dies down. It always does. So we only need to be patient and stay off the streets, out of sight, and as long as we hold our nerve –’

‘I mean who’s gonna get in the booze and fags.’ Carver cut him off with a sneer. ‘You’re full of shit, man. Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Lay low, stay off the streets, hold our nerve? What the fuck are you talking about? I swear you flap like a gash. Now, what I want to know is, who’s gonna get me some fags? I could do with a smoke.’

He leaned back comfortably in his chair and closed his eyes, while a smile spread slowly across his broad face. The knife resumed flicking, in and out, in and out, clicking faintly in the silence, regular as a ticking bomb.

5

The victim had lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house just a short walk from the train station but, for the moment, it was understandable that his widow had chosen to go and stay with a sister in Heslington, a few miles away from the centre of town. Geraldine and Ian drew up outside an old house with a rambling rose growing up one brick wall. In the front garden the leaves of a gnarled tree bent almost double with age were dotted with waxy magnolia blooms. The idyllic setting was poor recompense for the morbid reason for their visit. They walked carefully along an uneven path to the front door which was opened almost at once by a harassed-looking woman. Still holding the edge of the door, she brushed an untidy strand of hair off her face with the back of her free hand.

‘Mrs Jamieson?’

The woman frowned. ‘What is it you want? Only I’m sorry, I’m very busy right now –’

For answer they displayed their identity cards, and she screwed up her eyes to scrutinise them, her face twisting in a frown at the sound of a small child wailing in the house behind her.

‘This really isn’t a good time –’ she began again.

‘Please, Mrs Jamieson,’ Geraldine said gently, ‘we really do need to speak to your sister, if she’s here. We won’t keep her long.’

The woman drew in a deep shuddering breath and shook her head. ‘Well, you’d best come in then. You can speak to her, but I doubt you’ll get much sense out of her. She’s in a real state, which is hardly surprising. And I don’t suppose you pestering her is going to help any.’

She led them into a front room where a dining table was littered with torn wrapping paper and toys, birthday cards and cake crumbs, and half eaten chocolate fingers.

‘It was my youngest son’s birthday yesterday,’ she said apologetically. ‘We decided to go ahead, even though… The children don’t understand what’s happened, and anyway it was too late to cancel everyone.’

She shrugged, embarrassed at having held a party on the day her brother-in-law’s body had been discovered. Somewhere in the house a child could be heard whining.

‘I’ll go and find Ellie now. Please, sit down.’

She left the room and returned a few moments later with another woman trailing behind her.

‘Ellie, these are the police officers I just told you about. I’m sorry,’ she added, with an anxious glance at Geraldine, ‘but I’d better go and see to my daughter before she gets hysterical.’

She withdrew, leaving her sister standing in the doorway. Slim and fair-haired, she would have been pretty had her face not been blotchy, her pale blue eyes swollen from crying.

‘Come and sit down, Ellie.’

When the young widow didn’t respond, Geraldine repeated her invitation, doing her best to speak firmly yet kindly.

‘Ellie, we need to ask you a few questions,’ Ian said.

‘It’s about Grant,’ Geraldine added gently.

At her husband’s name, the widow started and her eyes travelled uneasily from Geraldine to Ian and back again.

‘You can’t speak to Grant,’ she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘Grant is dead.’ She began to shake, and tears slid down her cheeks. ‘He’s dead,’ she repeated in a shaky voice.

‘We’re so sorry,’ Geraldine said. ‘We’re sure you’d like to do whatever you can to help us find out who did this terrible thing.’

Ellie shuffled forwards into the room. Taking a seat, she stared at the table.

‘I can’t help you,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘I wasn’t there. No one was there.’ She raised one hand to her lips, stifling a sob. ‘He was all by himself when…’ Unable to control herself any longer, she broke down in tears, covering her face in her hands. ‘He was a good man,’ she mumbled through her fingers. ‘What kind of monster would do something like that?’ Lowering her hands, she glared at Geraldine, her eyes hardening with anger. ‘Find out who did it. I want to look Grant’s killer in the eye and – and –’ Her emotions overwhelmed her again and she put her head in her hands and sobbed, rocking backwards and forwards on her chair.

Ian glanced helplessly at Geraldine, and they waited until the widow’s crying fit subsided.

‘Ellie,’ Geraldine said, ‘can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband?’

‘No,’ came the muffled response.

‘Had he fallen out with anyone?’

Ellie’s head jerked up and her red-rimmed eyes widened in surprise. ‘What are you talking about?’ She hiccupped. ‘I thought – that is, they said – they told me he was mugged.’

Geraldine gave a cautious nod.

‘So why are you asking about people arguing with him, wanting to harm him? I don’t understand. Are you saying… What are you saying, exactly?’ Her expression of surprise switched to anger, and her voice hardened with suspicion. ‘Tell me what you mean.’

Geraldine spoke slowly. ‘We’re exploring the possibility that your husband’s death may have been the result of a deliberate attempt on his life.’

‘Deliberate? I don’t know what you mean. Are you telling me Grant was murdered?’

‘At this stage in our investigation we have to pursue every line of enquiry.’

Geraldine was aware that she was being evasive, but she was reluctant to say anything that might start the widow crying again. She didn’t want to cause her any unnecessary distress, but they couldn’t shy away from the truth indefinitely.

‘We believe there’s a chance your husband may have been murdered,’ she said gently.

Ellie looked agitated. ‘No, that’s not true!’ she burst out. ‘No one would want to hurt Grant. You didn’t know him, but he was a lovely man. A wonderful, kind man. No, what you’re suggesting, it’s just not possible. Everyone liked Grant.’

Clearly nothing Geraldine could say was going to persuade her to alter her opinion that her husband had been popular with everyone who had known him. Grant’s wife had loved him, and if he had made any enemies she had been ignorant of their existence.

‘Unless she was covering up something she knew,’ Ian suggested as they walked away from the picturesque house. ‘Maybe she was protecting someone?’

Geraldine shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. No, I believed her.’

Ian nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

Her face impassive, she was nevertheless pleased by his ready acquiescence. They had worked on many cases together and she was gratified to know he trusted her opinion.

Their next visit was to the school where the victim had taught history. It was closed for the weekend but the senior management, along with the members of the history department, had all agreed to attend a meeting with Ian and Geraldine. The head teacher had assured Ian that supporting the police in their investigation into Grant’s murder would take priority over everything else for himself and his staff. As they drew into the car park, the head teacher himself emerged to greet them. A tall robust man in middle age, he led them into a staff room where half a dozen people were waiting for them. After they had introduced themselves, the two detectives set to work.

Dividing the victim’s colleagues into two groups, they questioned the staff individually. It took a while, but no one raised any objections. On the contrary, everyone seemed keen to do whatever they could to help. The same picture emerged, regardless of who was being questioned. Grant Marcus had been an easy-going member of the history department, friendly and committed to his job. There was no sense that anyone was holding back out of reluctance to speak ill of the dead. All his colleagues had genuinely liked him, and enjoyed working with him. What was more, they all reported that he had been popular with the pupils as well.

‘A little too popular,’ the Head of History added, when Geraldine was questioning her about Grant.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, never anything untoward. Grant wasn’t like that.’

‘Like what?’

The teacher looked flustered. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t have done anything inappropriate. He was happily married.’

‘Was there any accusation of wrongdoing?’

‘No, not really. It was just a silly fourth former who had a crush on him and pestered him for a while. We moved her to my set and she was peeved. She got her parents to kick up a fuss about it at first, but it all died down when they heard why we had moved her. It was no reflection on him.’

‘When was that?’

‘Last year.’

‘Is she still in the school?’

‘Yes, but nothing happened. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘Do you think she, or her parents, might have held a grudge against him?’

‘I doubt it very much. Her parents were involved in all the discussions, and very supportive of our actions. In fact, they were both mortified by the girl’s behaviour. And her history grades improved when she moved to my set – only because she was focusing on her work, not on her teacher,’ she added quickly. ‘There was never any hint that Grant hadn’t acted properly or done a good job. He was an excellent teacher.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll all miss him.’

‘All the same, I’d like to see records of the incident.’

The headmaster handed over the pupil’s file readily, reiterating the departmental head’s assurances that nothing inappropriate had taken place, and summing up the general consensus, that the dead man had been conscientious and personable.

Ellie’s assurance that Grant had no enemies was echoed by everyone who had known him. Not only that but, according to his sister-in-law, he had been in a steady relationship with his wife since they had met in their first year at university, and it had been the first serious romance for them both. There was little chance either of them had a jealous ex. It was looking as though their initial theory was correct after all, that Grant had unfortunately walked along Pope’s Head Alley at the wrong time.

On the night Grant had been killed, he had gone out for a curry with the other members of the history department, one of whom was retiring at the end of the term. Other than one woman who been driving, they all admitted to having drunk quite a lot that evening. ‘Rather too much, in fact,’ one of them confessed. That explained why Grant had drunk so much on the night he was killed. After thanking the assembled staff for their time, Geraldine and Ian left. They had learned a lot about Grant, but were no nearer to discovering the identity of his killer.