About the author
Dreda Say Mitchell, who grew up on a housing estate in
east London, is an award-winning novelist, broadcaster,
journalist and freelance education consultant. For more
information and news, visit Dreda’s website:
www.dredasaymitchell.com
Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell
Also by Dreda Say Mitchell:
Running Hot
Killer Tune
Geezer Girls
Gangster Girl
Hit Girls
Vendetta
Snatched (an eNovella)
Death Trap
Dreda Say Mitchell
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by
Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Dreda Say Mitchell 2015
The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 444 78946 1
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London
EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
To all my readers on Facebook and Twitter who have supported my books and spread the word, a massive thank you for your time and energy.
And to my agent, the amazing Amanda Preston, for all those fruitful brainstorming sessions.
Contents
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
forty-four
forty-five
forty-six
forty-seven
forty-eight
forty-nine
fifty
fifty-one
fifty-two
fifty-three
fifty-four
fifty-five
fifty-six
fifty-seven
fifty-eight
fifty-nine
sixty
sixty-one
sixty-two
sixty-three
sixty-four
sixty-five
sixty-six
sixty-seven
sixty-eight
sixty-nine
seventy
seventy-one
seventy-two
seventy-three
seventy-four
Alternative ending
Acknowledgements
Enjoyed Death Trap?
one
Day One
6:40 a.m.
Madam B: I am going to kill them.
se15: How???
Madam B: Machete. No axe to the head. Quick. Bloody.
se15: Nah gotta be nice n sloooow. Waterboarding. Pure agony.
Madam B: Hahaha. Should Kung Fu chop ’em up to DEATH.
se15: Too much body contact. Your fingerprints everywhere ?
Sixteen-year-old Nikki grinned as she stared at her iPad screen, dreaming up different ways to kill her parents. She sat crossed-legged on the bed, tablet in her lap, her trademark fingerless gloves covering her hands. She was on Yakkety-Yak, the latest social networking craze, chatting to user se15. Fantasising about how to take down her parents melted away some of the stress – bought that chill-thrill back into her life. Of course she didn’t really want to kill them, but she was sick to death of them going on and on and on at her all the time like a pair of rabies-ridden dogs just waiting to sink their teeth into her.
You can’t do that, Nicola . . .
You can’t do this, Nicola . . .
And, of course, there was the classic,
We didn’t do that in my day . . .
Nikki rolled her storm-grey eyes as the memory of her mum yelling that one at her – yet again – ricocheted in her mind, before she’d flipped a finger and banged out of the house yesterday evening.
But Nikki didn’t have to worry about moan-fest Mummy at the present; she was safely tucked up in the best spot in town – the cosy bedroom on the top floor of the large house in Surrey: her pod of peace. As soon as she entered the room, her routine was always the same. Shut the door, drop the blinds, pop on the side lamp and then flip up the lid of her iPad to start chit-chatting to people who hid behind images of alter-egos and false names. Her lips pulled into a long, quick smile as she thought of another fantasy deadly deed to dispatch her parents permanently out of this life.
Madam B: Smother them with that mega size pillow they bought from Ikea . . .
Her fingers stopped moving when the door swung halfway open. A woman in her early twenties leaned her head into the room.
‘Nicola, breakfast is ready,’ she said in a gentle, Polish accent.
Nikki leaned back against the pillows as she answered Ania, the cleaner. ‘It’s too early too eat—’
‘You know they have an urgent appointment this morning,’ Ania smiled. ‘Come on. And don’t forget to take your gloves off.’
Then Ania was gone, but the door was left open.
Ping.
Hearing the sound, Nikki forgot about breakfast and went back to her Yakkety-Yak two-way conversation.
se15: Thought you wanted something nice n quick. Smothering takes way too looooong.
Nikki’s fingers got ready to answer, but her head hitched up and forwards when she heard a noise from downstairs; like something falling over. Then silence. She shrugged, thinking it couldn’t be anything to worry about and turned her attention back to se15.
Madam B: Maybe I should cut out mum’s tongue . . .
Her head snapped as she heard a crashing sound coming from downstairs.
Pop. Pop.
Her heartbeat kicked into high alert as she froze at the strange sound. Before she could try to figure out what the popping sound might be, two screams ripped through the air accompanied by shouting. Nicola jumped up, her iPad bouncing off her lap and onto the bed. Something was going on downstairs. No one yelled in this house, no one screamed. That’s what she loved about it: the peace a
nd calm, the way it made her feel like she was a person worth loving. Her body shook as quiet settled over the house again. But it didn’t soothe her; something was terribly wrong. But what should she do? Stay here? Go downstairs?
Ping.
Nikki looked over at her iPad on the bed. Grabbed it up. Didn’t look at the screen this time; instead shut the lid. Breathing way too high in her chest she moved towards the partially opened door. Stopped for a few seconds. Then used the fingers poking out of her right glove to ease the door – really slowly – further back. Nikki took a deep breath as she stepped into the small landing.
No one there. Her gaze settled on the corner that would take her to the remainder of the landing that led to the stairs. Her hand tightened around her iPad as she started to move forwards, slowly. Forwards again, and again. She reached the corner, turned, and crashed straight into another person.
Nikki staggered back. Automatically opened her mouth about to scream . . . A hand slammed over her mouth holding the noise back. She stared up into the wild, terrified eyes of Ania.
‘Shhh,’ Ania whispered.
Nicola nodded back. The other woman pulled her hand away. She twisted away from the teenager as she wildly looked around. Her gaze stopped on the doors of the airing cupboard. Quickly she turned back to Nicola and gestured with her hand at the cupboard. The girl stared back in confusion, not understanding what the cleaner wanted her to do. Her heartbeat pounded harder, and harder.
Ania grabbed her arm and hustled her towards the cupboard, which was opposite the room Nikki had previously been in. The double doors of the cupboard were the same height as the doors of the rooms around it, but with open wooden slats in the top half. Ania threw the doors open. The shelves were deep, with towels, bed linen and two duvets folded neatly on them.
‘Get. In,’ Ania shot out again.
Nikki once again started to ask, ‘why?’ but the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs stopped her.
‘Quick.’ This time Nicola heard the desperation and tears in the cleaner’s voice.
Nicola threw her iPad inside. Scrambled onto the middle shelf with the duvets. Ania slammed the doors shut. Instantly Nikki was engulfed in dark and heat. The footsteps outside got closer, like they were now on the landing. Crouched low she slowly eased her head up and looked through the slats.
All she could see was Ania’s back.
‘What do you want?’ she heard the cleaner shout.
Who was Ania talking to? Nikki couldn’t see anyone else.
No one answered. Abruptly Ania staggered back, her voice high, begging, ‘Please . . . No—’
Pop.
That’s all Nikki heard. Blood spurted out of Ania’s back, slashing high up against the slats in the airing cupboard door. Horrified Nikki felt blood slash against her lips and chin. Frozen with terror she watched Ania’s body slump to the floor. And that’s when she saw who was there.
A man.
Something strange covered his face and he wore black clothing. And he was standing over Ania with a gun in his hand.
Nicola wrapped a palm over her mouth to push back her sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears running from her eyes. The air in her chest was coming in strange, funny waves that made it hard for her to breathe. She’d never prayed in her life, but she wanted to pray now. Then she heard more footsteps. Her heartbeat madly kicked when she saw the gunman joined by another man dressed exactly like him. They stood staring down at Ania’s body.
The one without the gun turned to the other and spoke. What he said Nikki couldn’t hear because of the thing covering his face. The gunman answered him. She strained to hear what he was saying . . . then wished she hadn’t when she heard his words.
‘Let’s make sure no one else is here.’
Oh my God.
Nikki knew she should move deeper into the cupboard but the terror held her still.
Move.
Move.
MOVE.
Finally Nikki started easing back, scared to death they would hear her. Her chest heaved, but she tried to keep her breathing down; keep it low. She stopped when she felt the end of the cupboard against her back. Panic gripped her again when one of the men started moving.
Oh God, he’s coming towards the cupboard.
His black clothing blocked out the light sending Nikki into the darkest bowels of hell.
Please God. Please God.
He was getting closer. Closer. Closer.
Pleeeeease. Pleeeeease.
She kept the plea pounding in her mind to a God she didn’t even believe in.
The man stopped, hovering just outside. Then he turned away to the side and started walking.
Just stay still until they go away.
Stay still.
Still.
Crouched like a caged animal, with a dead woman’s blood drying on her skin, Nikki waited. The man who’d shot Ania joined the other one. They turned and started walking back along the landing. Nikki let out a soft and shaky breath of relief.
Ping.
Nikki looked desperately at her iPad.
The footsteps stopped. Started coming back.
No. No. No. NO.
The footsteps got closer.
They are going to kill me.
Going to kill me.
Kill me.
KILL ME.
two
9:33 a.m.
As soon as Detective Inspector Rio Wray, of the Metropolitan Police Service, turned her car onto the street in Surrey she didn’t need the address to ID where the killings had taken place. The place of murder was already taped off, local police stationed outside.
Number 3 The Lanes.
Sounded like something out of a Catherine Cookson novel, but the house was anything but. No back-to-back homes here in one of England’s most des res locations, at least according to those ‘where the super rich hang out’ guides that were done every year that Rio was never asked to take part in.
The house was two-storeys, large and sprawling; bottom-half plain brick, top coated white. It put Rio in mind of a private school for girls (not that she knew anything about fee-paying education, having been to a rough and tumble inner London comp). It was set in its own grounds – low grass, mammoth trees, showcasing and sheltering it at the same time. Some would call it impressive, but to Rio all that green plain hurt her eyes, and the seclusion afforded by the garden made it the perfect place for murder.
Rio got out of the car, an ebony BMW, which she’d christened her Black Magic Woman. She finger-combed her twist-out Afro – or ’fro as she liked to call it – then approached the two officers on duty either side of the front door.
‘Ma’am,’ one immediately uttered when she reached them.
His tone was low, with a sideline in barely held back insolence that she didn’t care for, but Rio left it alone. This situation was charged enough. The local police were in a tizzy about the presence of an outsider and her team running this investigation. One of the first acts of the newly appointed – and to some, controversial – Surrey Police and Crime Commissioner had been to shake up the investigation into the vicious spate of house robberies happening to wealthy householders living around London’s greenbelt. She’d done the unthinkable – outsourced the case to the Met. A ‘fresh-eyed, strategic approach’ to solving the case was how she put it. B.S. management speak for ‘you can’t get the fucking job done.’
Rio could understand the heated resentment of the local police. Having another force come in to help clean up your house was not a good look. But then blood in your house was an even worse one.
Rio pushed the politics back and the policing up front. Over the last three months a group of criminals – infamously dubbed ‘The Greenbelt Gang’ by the media – had carried out audacious early morning and increasingly more vicious raids on affluent homes in the area in the last six weeks. In the last attack, fifteen days ago, a woman had been murdered and that’s when Rio and her people had been assigned to the case.
&n
bsp; Rio slipped on protective, forensic clothing and entered the house, registering the large, white tiles on the hallway floor, pastel green walls, occasionally broken by large paintings, and a wider-than-average staircase that curved seductively to a world upstairs.
A plain-clothes officer appeared from a room off the spacious hallway: DI Thomas Morrell. A top-heavy guy who’d learned how to carry his increasing weight around. He was bristling, just like the other times Rio had met him, his disapproval at her being assigned the investigation he’d once been the senior on out in the open. Rio didn’t take it personally; she’d probably feel the same way if the situation were reversed.
‘So, are we dealing with another Greenbelt?’ she asked him getting down to business straight away. ‘The privacy of the house fits their MO.’
The flesh on his cheeks wobbled as his mouth moved. ‘That’s not the only thing that fits. Paint-sprayed security cameras, French window at the back shattered by a single shot. No bullet casing to be found and the place a total tip as they searched for anything to line their pockets.’ He pointed to the room he’d come out of. ‘They made sure that no one was left standing this time.’
‘Who discovered the bodies?’
‘A local man who does the gardening. He turned up about an hour ago, couldn’t get an answer, went around the back and saw a body in the kitchen.’
‘We’ll need to check out the gardener . . .’
DI Morrell twisted his lips in a way that Rio knew whatever he was about to spit out next was going to be nasty. ‘If you were from around these parts you’d know that old Amos couldn’t hurt a fly.’
Finally it was out in the open. It being he had a problem with her being black. She didn’t have to be a genius to know that by ‘around these parts’ he not only meant Surrey but anywhere else in England. Colleagues questioning her abilities because of the colour of her skin was old news. She didn’t have the time of day for some fat fuck of a detective who spoke in double meanings and didn’t have the guts to say it plain and simple to her face.
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