Deep Cover

by Leigh Russell

  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

  'Exceptional crime writing’ – M.W. Craven

  'Leigh Russell tells a tangled tale in which guilt catches up with the innocent. It kept me guessing until the end’ – Lesley Thomson

  'Deep Cover is edge of the seat stuff. A highly entertaining thriller I could not put down’ – Marion Todd

  ‘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 Bookblog

  ‘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

  He spotted her straight away, leaning against the wall of a disused brewery. Once the apartment block under construction across the road was occupied, the residents would be able to see her, and she would have to find somewhere else to wait around for men who were looking for what she called a ‘good time’. As it turned out, time spent in her company wasn’t particularly good. Nevertheless, Thomas kept coming back. Even though he knew he should resist the urge to see her, he found himself taking the guilty detour whenever his wife was away from home. Sometimes he drove there almost without thinking.

  The first time, Thomas had come across her by accident when he was looking for a pub one of his colleagues had mentioned. The woman seemed enticing because an encounter with her was forbidden and quite possibly dangerous. A violent pimp might be lurking nearby, waiting to mug him, or worse. He glanced around but there was no one else in sight. Although he loved his wife, some long-suppressed instinct in him stirred when he saw the stranger, provocative under the flickering light of a street lamp.

  ‘Looking for a good time?’ she called out.

  Close up she wasn’t very attractive, but he was captivated by the promise of illicit sex. It would be just the once. No one else was ever going to know.

  But it wasn’t just the once. He started making excuses for taking the detour even when his wife was at home waiting for him. There was something addictive about his guilt. He savoured it in secret moments. He assured himself it was harmless. No one else was ever going to find out, least of all his wife whom he loved. In any case, he told himself, the building work would soon be complete. Residents would go in and out of the new block of flats opposite, and he would no longer find the woman loitering on the street outside the disused brewery. She would have to wait for men in another street, and he would make no attempt to find her again. Although he couldn’t resist coming back, he was impatient to be done with her. The guilt was exhausting.

  The building work over the road was nearly finished and he knew his visits could not continue for much longer. His wife was away for the weekend and his son had gone back to university in London. His house would be empty. Knowing this was possibly the last time he would see the sex worker, he grew bold with a heady combination of relief and regret.

  ‘Come back to my house,’ he said.

  She glared suspiciously at him, but softened when he offered to pay her double her usual fee.

  ‘For your time,’ he added, in case she was afraid he was going to want her to do something out of the ordinary.

  As they drove off, he wondered what he could possibly dream up that would seem extraordinary to her. They reached the house and he hurried her indoors. Unless someone looked closely, they would probably think he was with his wife. As soon as they were inside, with the front door closed, she held out her hand for the promised money. Only then did he realise that he had left his wallet in the car. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her alone in his house.

  ‘I’ll pay you when we’re back in the car,’ he said. ‘I left my wallet out there.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ she replied, her eyes blazing with fury.

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ he said, backing away from her sudden anger.

  Without warning, she launched herself at him, screeching that she would tear the flesh from his body. A s
tream of other equally vitriolic threats issued from her painted lips.

  ‘You arsehole!’ she yelled. ‘You pay me now, you piece of shit! You promised me double and that’s what you’re going to hand over. Now!’

  Only a few moments earlier, she had climbed willingly into his car and had let him drive her to his house without demur. Now she was reacting as though he had abducted her against her will.

  ‘I’ll see you in hell!’ she shrieked.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he snarled, struggling to control his temper. ‘The neighbours might hear you.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about your neighbours! Give me my money!’

  As she reached for him, her scarlet fingernails curled like claws, Thomas lashed out in alarm.

  ‘Get off me, you filthy whore!’

  His first punch sent her reeling. She staggered towards him, howling, and he felt the sting as her nails scratched at his head. Terrified, he felled her with another blow. There was a loud crack as her head hit the edge of the wooden coat rack. By the time she slumped to the floor she had lost consciousness. Her arms and legs twitched convulsively, while her fingers scratched at the carpet and the breath rattled hoarsely in her throat. He watched, transfixed, as her eyes glared helplessly at him, and then she lay still.

  Thomas had no idea how long he stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the grotesque figure lying on his hall floor. His immediate reaction was relief that there was no blood to clean up. Then he began to shake uncontrollably. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees, his eyes still fixed on her, willing her to wake up. But somehow he knew she wasn’t breathing. Still trembling, he clambered to his feet and stumbled up the stairs. Wrenching his shaving mirror from its bracket, he went back downstairs and held it in front of her nose and mouth. There was no sound from her and no faint mist on the mirror when he leaned over to examine the surface. He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still there. Dead.

  He had not actually killed her, but no one was likely to give him the benefit of the doubt, least of all the police. A forensic team would come ferreting around, picking up minute traces of evidence, and the outcome of such an investigation was inevitable. However earnestly he insisted she had accidentally tripped and hit her head while falling, the evidence would condemn him, regardless of the truth. He had no choice but to get rid of the body before his wife returned. He stared at the twisted torso, arms and legs splayed out in a macabre display, the painted face leering up at him as though she was about to scream at him to get his filthy hands off her. The sight of her made him feel sick.

  His disgust rapidly turned to anger. The stupid bitch had brought this on herself. He hadn’t wanted her to die, and certainly not in his house. He had just been looking for a bit of fun while his wife was away visiting her mother. Admittedly he had been a fool to bring a tart into his house. His wife could have come home early and surprised him, but somehow the threat of discovery had lent an edge of excitement to an otherwise squalid encounter. He had not expected the tart to turn on him like a cornered animal. Whether drugs or insanity had prompted her attack was immaterial. All that mattered now was getting rid of her.

  Stepping over the corpse, he staggered to the bathroom and retched until his guts hurt and his throat felt as though he had rubbed it with sandpaper. The side of his head stung where she had scratched him. Fortunately she had only scraped the skin beneath his hair. Not only had he had some protection, but the injury was concealed. Doing his best to quell his nausea, he rummaged around and found an old dust sheet in the garage. With difficulty, he rolled the corpse in the sheet and dragged it into the coat cupboard under the stairs where he covered it up as well as he could. It was nerve-wracking leaving the house, knowing there was a body hidden beneath the stairs, but he had no choice. He had a lot to do, and he had to act quickly.

  Using a computer in a hotel, he searched online for a second-hand van. At last he found one in a nearby village, with a telephone number to contact. He bought a cheap phone for cash and, after a sleepless night, called up on the burner phone and confirmed that the van was being sold from a private address in Heslington, not far from where he lived. Unfortunately the owner could not see him until late that afternoon. Thomas really didn’t want to wait that long, but there was nothing he could do. The seller was adamant he couldn’t see Thomas any earlier. After a restless few hours, he took the bus to Heslington, concealing his face as well as he could beneath a hood. He tossed the phone into a bin on his way, and bought a rusty van for cash from a man who barely glanced at him. He still had twenty-four hours to complete his mission before his wife returned on Sunday evening.

  His own driveway was sheltered on both sides by high fences, and even from the road the view of what he was doing that night was obscured by the van. Even so, it was far harder than he had anticipated, dragging the dead woman out through the front door under cover of darkness. The sheet was not long enough to cover her completely, and her legs were exposed, but at least he didn’t have to look at her face. She was so floppy, it was like carrying an armful of giant eels, and several times she nearly slipped out of his grasp. It seemed to take hours, but he was confident no one saw him hoisting her into the van, just as no one had spotted her climbing into his car when he had picked her up, or observed their arrival at his house. His shoulders aching from the strain of carrying the body into the rusty old van, he pulled out of the drive. He drove slowly, resisting putting his lights on until he reached the Holgate Road.

  It didn’t really matter where he dropped the body, as long as no one saw him, but he had been for a walk once in Acomb Wood and thought that would do as well as anywhere. There was no one around to see him carry the body in his arms as far as a small clearing, where he dropped his burden unceremoniously on the muddy ground. His next task was crucial to the success of his plan; he had to conceal the van. His wife never went in the garage so he decided that would be as good a hiding place as any until he figured out what to do with it. The longer he drove around, the more chance there was that he would leave a trail for the police to find. In the unlikely event that his wife questioned him about it, he would tell her that he was storing the van for a friend. It took him most of the rest of the night to clear enough space in the garage to put the van in there, but he persevered. He didn’t really have any other choice.

  Finally in the house, mentally and emotionally drained, he was desperate to go to sleep. But first he cleaned every surface she might have touched, and even wiped the carpet with a damp cloth. She might as well never have been in the house for all the signs he could see of her presence there. Thirty hours since he had spotted her loitering by the kerb, she had gone – all trace of her visit wiped out, along with her life. She was no great loss. The trauma of the past day was over and he had come through it without any lasting consequences. He doubted the police would devote much energy to looking for the killer of a sex worker. After that, he would be patient. One day, when he was confident they had abandoned their search, he would dispose of the van. He had taken care not to touch any of its surfaces with his bare hands, and had kept the windows open while he was driving to minimise any trace of his DNA inside it. Exhausted, he staggered upstairs and took a shower before falling into bed, his horrendous experience finally over.

  1

  They came across her lying face down in the slushy mud on their first walk of the year.

  ‘Do you think she’s all right?’ Yvonne asked, staring at the back of the woman’s head and avoiding looking at her exposed flesh.

  The woman’s dark hair was spread out concealing her face, but her body was on display, her skin horribly white against the mud smeared over her in uneven patches like a ghastly spa treatment. They stood gazing down in consternation and for a moment no one spoke. Despite her covering of dirt, it was apparent the dead woman had been scantily clad. One high-heeled silver sandal had fallen off and lay a sho
rt distance away from her, glistening in the mud. A second one was on her foot, a glittering fragment of attempted glamour. Yvonne wondered if the woman had liked the sandals. They couldn’t have been very comfortable. Almost against her will, her eyes travelled up the woman’s mud-splattered legs to her black skirt which was so short it exposed white buttocks, dimpled with cellulite.

  ‘She’s probably wearing a thong,’ one of the women murmured.

  ‘What kind of a skirt is that?’ Yvonne muttered.

  ‘She might as well not have bothered,’ someone else agreed.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to be moving, does she?’ another member of the walking group said.

  ‘Well, obviously she’s not moving,’ Jonathan replied irritably, crouching down and studying the woman closely. ‘Her head’s covered in mud. I can’t see anything of her face.’

  Yvonne shuddered. ‘I’m glad I’m not here on my own,’ she murmured, with a slight catch in her voice. ‘You don’t think she’s dead, do you?’

  ‘Of course she’s dead,’ Jonathan barked, straightening up. ‘Her face is buried in mud, for goodness sake. There’s no way she can still be breathing.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ another of their walking group cried out. ‘What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we cover her up or something?’

  ‘How can we help her?’ another voice chimed in.

  ‘Shouldn’t we turn her over?’ a third one asked.

  ‘No,’ William called out loudly, waving his arms at them. ‘Stand back, all of you. And stay on the path. The ground is sodden over there. Don’t go anywhere near her. We mustn’t contaminate the scene.’

  ‘Do you suspect foul play?’ Yvonne whispered, feeling a sudden burst of excitement, as though she was acting in a television crime drama.

  Although Jonathan was officially the leader of the ramblers group, as a retired headmaster William spoke with a voice of authority others tended to obey without question.