by Helen Fields
That day had been etched in Zoey’s memory like the scene from The Wizard of Oz, only Toto had not escaped from her stepfather’s clutches to return to her. Warrior was pulled from her arms as she huddled on her bed, declaring that she would die if they took him.
‘Stop making such a fuss,’ her mother had said. Those five words had been a death sentence for whatever mother–daughter bond still fluttered like a fragile butterfly in the summer of Zoey’s childhood. Her stepfather told her Warrior had gone to the dogs’ home. He would go to a loving family better suited to him, he’d lectured. Zoey sat down that night and calculated how many days it was until her own sixteenth birthday, when she could flee as her brother had. Seven hundred and two. She had marked each one down in a notebook, ready to cross off with a red pencil as she waded through them.
What a waste of a life it had been, she thought. And the horrible truth now was that if she could have even a tiny percentage of those bruise-filled, hate-inducing days back, she would take them with a grateful heart.
By seventeen she had been living with a college friend until the girl’s mother had lost her job and couldn’t feed or house Zoey anymore. She had tried and failed to study and pass exams, but the constant moving between sofas was too exhausting. In the end she had given her mother one last try. Promises had been made. They were just as swiftly broken. Fists had flown once more.
At eighteen, Zoey had been wise enough to know when to cut her losses. She had walked out into the street to shout her opinion of her stepfather to the world, a safe enough place that even he wouldn’t dare harm her. Then she had taken herself and her plastic bag of clothes to a shelter she’d heard about. Sporting the bruises that were her passport inside the safe haven, she had settled down while she waited in the endless list for social housing. Scars were examined. An offer to prosecute was made. Still Zoey couldn’t be so cruel to her mother that she could put the man who kept a head over her house in prison. Even if he deserved it a thousand times over.
The sky came closer as she stared at the moon. A gust of wind danced through the branches of the trees above her, scattering a sheet of golden leaves over her body. A many-legged creature skittered over her neck, but Zoey didn’t mind. No point flinching now. In a while, all she would be was bug food. The road was long and straight, unadorned by regulatory white lines. She was in the countryside, then. The next car might not pass until morning. It would be an awful discovery for the poor driver, Zoey thought. Imagine starting Monday morning with such a monstrosity. That was if the car didn’t run over her.
The last seven days of her life had begun with a mistake. How many times were children told not to get too close to a car asking for directions? She had been distracted, wondering what to cook for dinner as she made her way to the local supermarket in Sighthill. Zoey hadn’t noticed the car following her, although she knew now that it had been. There had been no sixth sense as she’d cut through a carpark between tenements. It hadn’t occurred to her that the man who wanted to know how to get to the zoo might have a large knife up his sleeve, ready and waiting to poke into the side of her neck. Get into the car or bleed out in the parking lot had been her options. She wished she’d chosen the latter in hindsight. It would all have come out the same in the end.
In the passenger seat, knife pointed into her chest, he had told her to put on handcuffs. Her hands had shaken so badly that she hadn’t been able to close the locks until the fourth attempt. Just rape me, she’d thought. Just get whatever this is out of your system. Use me, then let me go. But let me live. Please let me live. I crossed so many days off in red pen. It’s not fair for me to die now.
The man had driven her further away, beyond the scope of roads she recognised as she lay across the rear seat. No bravery had been lacking. She’d slipped a foot under the door handle and tried to prise it open, only to find the child locks engaged. Dark windows at the rear of the vehicle had ruined her chances of waving for help. Even attempting to hit the man over the head with her bound hands had won her nothing but a contemptuous laugh and an elbow in her eye.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ she’d said, as they’d finally pulled up into an overgrown driveway.
‘I’m not going to,’ he’d said. ‘But you’ve been a bad girl.’
‘What?’ she’d asked, her mouth dry with fear and the shameful knowledge that her bladder had allowed its contents to run away, even while the rest of her couldn’t.
‘I need you to say it,’ the man had said calmly. ‘You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you?’
‘You’ve got the wrong person,’ Zoey had replied. ‘I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not bad. I’ve never hurt anyone. If you let me go, I promise I won’t say a word. I won’t get you into trouble.’
‘But you are a bad girl,’ the man said. ‘You’re disrespectful. You’re uncaring. You only ever think about yourself. Say it.’
‘I’m not,’ Zoey had cried, slinking away from him in the back seat. ‘I’m not bad. You don’t know me.’
At that, the man had climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear door. He was tall. His close-set eyes were such a dark shade of brown that Zoey couldn’t discern pupils from irises. He smelled. As he leaned over her, grabbing a handful of hair to wrench her off the back seat, she caught the whiff of rotten matter.
‘I’ll do whatever you want. You can … you can have sex with me. I won’t fight you. If you want me to be a bad girl for you then I can be. Okay? I can be whatever you want,’ she had whispered, turning her face away as he pulled her to stand against him.
‘You see? How many seconds did it take for you to show me exactly what you are. Say it to me,’ he said.
‘I’m a bad girl,’ Zoey had muttered, as he pushed her to her knees on the driveway, a gesture that had signalled the end of hope. No one around to see what he was doing, if he was so confident so publicly. She had lifted her head to peer over the bushes. Not a building in sight save for the one she was destined to enter. No one to hear her scream.
An owl hooted in the trees above her. Zoey had always loved owls. A snuffling sound came from the verge beyond her line of sight. It’s Warrior, she thought. Warrior’s coming to sit with me, and I’ll be with Daddy again. Nothing to be scared of anymore. The stars reflecting in her eyes went dark. Edinburgh’s autumn was set to be long and cold.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks, in no particular order, to all who got Perfect Death from idea to book shelf, and who provided support for me during the process, often in the simple form of constant encouragement. If I forget anyone, please forgive me – that old chestnut about forgetting my head if is wasn’t screwed on? Yup. That’s me.
Helen Huthwaite, my editor, has done so much work on this book that it should probably be her name on the cover instead of mine. For all the help, patience, guidance (and for knowing what I wanted to say even when I didn’t), you are a star. To Sabah Khan, Avon’s publicist, thank you for never getting fed up with me (or at least for hiding it really well). And to the wider Avon and HarperCollins team – designers, marketing, sales (you guys rock), and everyone else who oils the machine – I am indebted.
To my agent Caroline Hardman and the Hardman & Swainson lovelies, for your support and good advice – thank you. The Wailing Banshee team produced animated GIFs, websites, promo films and handled all the tech for the books. I’m eternally grateful, and sorry for all the stupid questions.
A special mention to my friend Simon Gardner, son of the extraordinary writer John Gardner. Many thanks for giving permission for me to mention The Liquidator and Boysie Oakes. Your father was such a great talent.
To Andrea Gibson and Amanda Patchett who were my first readers for Perfect Death, I couldn’t have made it through the first few drafts without you. Also, for the cups of tea, cocktails, meals, laughs, tissues, chatter and all round love.
For booksellers everywhere, particularly those who championed this series and got it into the hands of real life, flesh
and blood readers. Thank goodness for all of you.
To Christine, Margaret, Ruth, Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline for listening to me and hugging me. Then there’s David (there’s always David), who made me be brave and take a risk this year. You were right. You only regret the things you don’t try. He also cooked, cleaned, drove, headed up my personal tech support team, changed lightbulbs, entertained the children and let me write. My best friend.
Helen x
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About the Author
Helen Fields studied law at the University of East Anglia, then went on to the Inns of Court School of Law in London. After completing her pupillage, she joined chambers in Middle Temple where she practised criminal and family law for thirteen years. After her second child was born, Helen left the Bar. Together with her husband David, she runs a film production company, acting as script writer and producer. The D.I. Callanach series is set in Scotland, where Helen feels most at one with the world. Helen and her husband now live in Hampshire with their three children and two dogs.
Helen loves Twitter but finds it completely addictive. She can be found at @Helen_Fields.
By the same author
Perfect Remains
Perfect Prey
About the Publisher
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Can’t Get Enough of the D.I. Luc Callanach Series?
Chapter One – Zoey
Acknowledgements
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About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
