Little Bird
Sharon Dempsey
Copyright © 2017 Sharon Dempsey
The right of Sharon Dempsey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
For Liam
Praise for Sharon Dempsey
‘A search for identity, set against evil and revenge … a thrilling debut.’
Bestselling author, Louise Phillips
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
1
Anna Cole ran through the copse of trees, ignoring the thorny scratches that raked across her face. A damp earthiness mixed with pine needles filled the night air as she plowed on, running as fast as her feet and lungs would let her. The recent rainfall was making every footstep treacherous, as she made her way down the steep bank of the valley. She was closing in on him; she could feel it. Instinct and sheer determination were pushing her onwards. He was headed towards the row of terrace houses, where the back gardens nestled against the purple bruise of the Wenalt Hill landscape.
The suspect, Bevan, was on the move, desperately trying to outwit, and out-run them, knowing that they had found the girl and that they were moving in on him. Four-year-old Layla, had been discovered in the loft of a house near her home. Snatched from her back garden and plunged into a living nightmare. Her soft, blonde hair was matted and unkempt, so unlike the perfect image in the photograph that had become a synonymous with the case. The photograph that had haunted Anna’s dreams.
She powered on, gulping in the damp night air as she made her way down the hillside. With every thump of her feet on the uneven, grassy ground, Anna thought not of the girl, but of the parents and the little brother, too shocked and horrified to do anything, but sit mumbling her name over and over. Layla, Layla, Layla. As if it was magical mantra he could use to conjure her back from the depths of horror. Now it ran through Anna’s head like trance music on loop, helping power her onwards.
A flash of something caught Anna’s eye, making her change direction. From her vantage point on the hillside she could see him vault over a hedge, straight into the back gardens of the terrace houses. By the time she would reach the houses he could be anywhere. She prayed Aled and Lewis where positioned in the street ready to release the dogs on him, should he make it that far. The hillside was boggy and slick in places, causing Anna to stumble, fall forwards, and almost career into a tree before righting herself. She was closer to the houses now. Minutes away from the gap in the hedging where she had seen him enter.
She skidded to a halt as she reached the back of the houses and forced her way through copper beech hedging, feeling her jacket snag on the dense brittle branches. She entered the garden and listened – the only sound the yap of dogs in the distance. The house looked shut up for the night, curtains drawn against the dark, rained-washed skies.
She stilled herself, tried to steady her breathing and crept along the perimeter hoping the darkness would allow her the advantage of surprise. The shed door had a single sliding lock, and it had been pulled back, even though the door was held fast. He was on the other side, listening as the bark of the dogs came closer.
She braced herself ready to kick the door in, when suddenly, he was there, almost upon her, the flash of a metal rod in his hand, glinting in the moonlight. Anna noticed his eyes, wide and unblinking in their terror, before she felt the heavy thump of his weight punch into her chest, knocking the wind straight out of her. At the precise moment he stabbed her, she thought of her mother’s last days, how the past months had been torturous, how she needed something to change. To find a way to start again. She fell backwards, landing onto the hedging that she had clambered through moments earlier. He moved fast, but the dogs were coming. Their yapping roar telling Anna that he was surrounded.
Anna checked the wound site and saw the square of white dressing had become stained. It was weeping again. She pulled down her t-shirt quickly, before Jon appeared fussing over her and making valid arguments about why she should consider a career change. He didn’t understand that it was just another day at the office. These were the risks she had to take to know that children like Layla, weren’t in danger from bastards like Bevan. She had taken a puncture wound from a screwdriver, nothing major, but her right breast would carry a scarred reminder of the Hawthorne case for evermore. The wound didn’t require anything beyond stitches and paracetamol, not even an over-night stay in hospital, but that hadn’t stopped Jon from using it against her. Reminding her at every wince and dressing change that she didn’t need to do this for a living. That there were other ways to live.
She put her head back into the pillow, thinking about how she’d tell him that she had made her decision. She was leaving Cardiff.
He watched the bridesmaid float along like an apparition, her pale pink chiffon dress skimming the mossy damp ground. She had taken off her shoes and carried them in her right hand, holding them by the long slender heels that made him think of wine glass stems.
The ground underfoot was cool and springy soft, save for the odd twig that cracked beneath their weight. He could sense the river nearby as the earth began to meander downwards. The wildlife unseen, but there all the same.
‘God my feet are killing me,’ she laughed, leaning in closer to him, making him catch his breath and forcing him to steady himself.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he said sounding assured. She wobbled, her bare feet unsure on the uneven ground, feeling the effects of too much wine. He felt her hair as soft as a rabbit pelt, as it brushed against his arm when he held her close.
‘I wish I’d gone for a pee,’ she blurted, ‘but I’m gasping
for some blow. There’s only so much the drink can do,’ she giggled, as if what she had said was funny and that he would understand.
‘Aye, sure we’ll skin up when we find the spot. Nearly there.’
They reached the clearing; the river glistening back to the moon as its glow seeped through the foliage overhead.
‘I feel like I’ve walked for miles and I can still hear the music,’ she said as she took his jacket from her shoulders and spread it out on the damp ground. ‘There, now I can sit without ruining my dress.’
The creaking and rustle of the trees swayed gently in the night as a low thump, thump of the distant music drifted towards them.
‘Aw, I hope I don’t miss any good songs,’ she said leaning back against a tree before jerking forward again, ‘I’ll go behind that bush over there,’ she said, ‘while you skin up – and no peeping.’ She smiled at him, her body swaying as she clambered up from the ground, seemingly more unsteady as the night air filled her lungs, heightening the alcohol in her blood stream.
Getting her here had been the easy bit. He could hardly believe his luck when he recognised her. He knew the next part would be more difficult, but he was ready, and well prepared. He swallowed hard and felt the stirrings of his erection in anticipation. She was hunkered down with her thong around her ankles. He always thought them a sorry excuse for knickers.
‘What the fuck! I told you not to look,’ she bawled.
It happened almost as he had thought it would. Swift and sure. She cried out, a sharp animal like cry as she realised what was to come. He knew the blunt blow of the heavy branch would easily take her down. The thump of the impact reverberated through his body like a rhythm. He hadn’t counted on her falling forwards on to a fallen bough, that was an added bonus. How simple it all seemed. How perfectly attuned he was to the rise and fall of her chest, her heart racing to keep up with the blood loss.
He felt the life drain out of her, as she gurgled and choked on her own blood, writhing beneath his body in her vain attempt to struggle free. His fingers, reached for that soft place between her collarbones, and he pushed down on her windpipe, her eyelids fluttering in desperation. She shuddered one last gurgle, before relaxing into death, and as the life in her ebbed away, so too did his urge. He could feel his penis shrivel and retreat back within. There was no need to violate her in that way. Her death was enough.
The cleanup was strategic. He knew how to leave no trace. He retrieved his holdall bag which had been hidden in the hallow of an old felled tree. He changed into his trainers, two sizes bigger than his work shoes, to keep them on their toes, should they find a footprint. Carefully he swept away his path with a long piece of fir tree, using it like a broom to erase their trail. The fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel came to his mind. He never liked the simpering kids, dropping their breadcrumbs in the hope of finding their way home.
As he scaled the fence surrounding the hotel, avoiding the car park and the rear surveillance cameras, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Job done, he thought, exactly as he planned it.
2
Declan Wells had watched with the analytical eye of the forensic psychologist as all those around him fell into stereotypical roles. His wife, Izzy, was sobbing; huge gut-wrenching sobs that rendered her pretty, previously made up face, ugly and twisted. He knew she would be horrified to see how dreadful she looked, how her carefully applied mascara was a smudge of bruise grey on her bronzed cheekbone. The designer fascinator was set at a jaunty angle to the side of her head making her look comically macabre. She grasped at people as if they could tell her something to make it all right, to annihilate the news she had been given. Her glossy brown hair, so carefully dressed that morning, was coming undone. A loose curl slipped down her face, adding to her disheveled appearance. Yet, he had no desire to comfort her, knowing his attempts would be rebuffed.
Lara, still in her ivory wedding gown, all ruffles of silk and shimmering crystals, was wrapped in her groom Rory’s arms like he could protect her from this mess of a wedding. He could barely conceal his dislike of his new son-in-law but he had promised Izzy that once they married he would back off. It wasn’t so long ago that Lara would have ran to him and expected his arms to hold her tight while he whispered it’s okay, daddy will make it okay.
A few of the younger guests were crying, cousins on his wife’s side, one or two of them sobbing in that teenage way of having no regard for anyone else. The men were standing around looking perplexed awaiting instructions on how to react. They had sobered up by the rush of news. The hotel staff had been instructed to keep everyone in the ballroom, making everyone feel under threat or suspicion. Those with victim type personalities, thought Declan, would feel they were being unfairly judged, and those with a sense of flight, would feel trapped and at risk. Twenty-four years of experience working in the police service, first the Royal Ulster Constabulary and then later the Police Service of Northern Ireland, before a dissident republican car bomb interrupted his service, taught Declan that people nearly always reverted to types when faced with tragedy.
There would be the wailers who cried out asking, why, and demanding an unseeing God to intervene. Others would run, like headless chickens, with no purpose beyond movement, unable to stay still for fear that the catastrophe would touch them, like some floating black cloud of evil which could be avoided by perpetual motion.
Then there was the catatonic; the person who would appear to be incapable of movement, who would stay absolutely frozen still. Struck dumb by shock and unable to process what had occurred. Declan wondered where the disassociated catatonic was in this calamity, before realising, the catatonic was himself.
Being wheelchair bound had given Declan a precise, static view of the aftermath. He had learnt early on that disability renders one incapable of quick, purposeless movement. If he decided to move, it required a little forethought, a moments’ preparation of unleashing the brake of his chair, angling his upper body to make the necessary movements to put the chair in motion. Therefore, he rarely moved without intent, whereas all around him, people were in motion, seemingly agitated but going nowhere and achieving nothing beyond making their anxiety heard and seen.
From his chair, he had a front row seat to the drama of life. People talked down to him, literally and figuratively, or even worse over his head. But while they reacted to him differently, he too found that his view of others was altered. The chair itself created a sort of barrier and he found himself considering aspects of them and himself that before the bomb he would not have given two thoughts to. He looked around the ballroom, festooned with flowers and disco lights still casting a blue light over everyone. The music had been silenced but the room reverberated with the hum of talk, questions no one could answer. He felt that old resentment stir inside, that sense of uselessness. He wanted to be out doing something purposeful. Discovering for himself, what had happened. To see with his own eyes and to know that it was true. Had they really said his daughter Esme was dead, murdered in her bridesmaid dress? Fate had struck with the worse blow of all. His injuries, his mangled body, crushed, tossed and mottled with shrapnel hadn’t been enough. He was being asked to pay more.
3
Our lives are made up of stories, Anna thought. Some we are told and others we tell ourselves. Her mother once told her that each day makes up a lifetime of experiences, bleeding into each other like the colours merging on a damp sheet of paper as the brush strokes complete the scene. For Anna, the story of her arrival was where she began. Not her birth, no, for that was unknown, another life of untold possibilities.
Sometimes you have to go back to the beginning to know where the ending will take you.
She had presented the secondment to Jon and to her dad as a way of helping her to figure out what she wanted from life and perhaps an opportunity to look into her biological family. Jon didn’t get the whole ‘I need to find myself crap’. To be fair, Anna would have been the same with him, but she couldn’t help feeling a ne
ed to fill in the blanks. Maybe if she could paint in some of the background of her birth family, then she could concentrate on the foreground of her life. She knew she sounded full of herself, that old ‘on the couch’ mentality of needing to know oneself, but there had to be some truth in it.
‘It’s always your job,’ Jon had said a few weeks ago, when she told him about the post.
‘It wins hands down every time.’ Anna could hear the hurt in his voice.
‘Come on, it’s only six months, a chance to learn how new policing techniques work in a different environment. Think about the breadth of experience it offers.’ Even she could hear how hollow her words sounded.
‘After everything that’s happened with your mum, that bloody Hawthorne case, this is the last thing you need,’ he took her face in his hands, feeling sure of himself now. ‘You can’t go Anna. Maybe you should take some time off before you throw yourself back in.’
He had no right trying make her feel weak and vulnerable and his words only served to make her more steadfast in her decision.
Little Bird: a serial killer thriller Page 1
