by Tara Lyons
In The Shadows
Tara Lyons
Published by Tara Lyons
Copyright © 2016 Tara Lyons
Digital Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the site and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my family – my inspiration.
I dedicate this book to a very special group of friends who set me on my writing journey. Throughout these pages I’ve used their names as my way of saying thank you.
To my mentor, dear friend and writing partner in crime, Mel Comley; my dream would never have been fulfilled if it were not for her.
Special thanks go to my editor Stefanie Spangler Buswell, cover designer Karri Klawiter and my beta readers Maria Lee and Noelle Holten – your feedback was instrumental. Also, to Linda Prather for her guidance and Joseph Calleja for his proofreading skills and advice – I thank you both dearly.
Lastly, thank you to The Book Club on Facebook, the amazing bloggers and online friends I’ve made over the last year. The support, encouragement and banter is always a welcome tonic.
OTHER BOOKS BY
TARA LYONS
Web of Deceit (co-written with M A Comley)
Keep in touch with the author at
http://www.facebook.com/Taralyons
http://www.taralyonsauthor.blogspot.co.uk
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[email protected]
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
THE END
PROLOGUE
They never found the first dead body. I didn’t want them to. I was in control, powerful, and important. My fingers tightly gripped the smooth black knife handle, and I felt the rush of excitement as the sharp tip pierced her chest. All my energy, power, and hate spurred me on, telling me to push harder—so hard that I saw the last breath escape her dark lips and mingle with the frosty midnight air.
It was the first time I took someone’s life, and the rush was euphoric. No drug or liquor could evoke that pleasure; it was better than sex. Even the memory of that night makes my skin tingle. It wasn’t planned, and I’d had no real clue what I was doing or what I was even thinking about in the minutes that ultimately led to my greatest moment. She goaded me and forced me into making that decision, which ended her pathetic life. I can’t let wrongdoers walk these streets, those selfish, thoughtless, and insignificant people.
But mistakes were made, and I need to learn from them. She’d clawed at my face. My flesh and blood were stained forever under her manicured nails. She took a piece of me with her into the dirt, into her burial ground. I kicked her in the face for that.
I spent time and sweat on her, digging the wet mud. She got more from me than I would have liked. The strain was worth it to know that no one will find her—of that I’m sure.
I watch, sometimes, as people walk over her. Women stupidly totter, workmen stomp, and children kick their footballs right above her lifeless body. None of them will find her because none of them will stop long enough to take in the world around them, to worry about another individual, or to notice who is watching them. She was my rehearsal. They all will be, until I reach my ultimate prize.
No one will ever make me feel the sorrow she did—reduced to tears by her words, like a child in the playground. She didn’t listen to me or give me the respect that I deserved; she needed to pay for her actions. My pain has turned to fury, and I won’t be stopped. They’ll all pay. They won’t ignore me. They’ll fear me.
I know what I have to do next, and the only thing missing now is opportunity. I need to ensure that I make clever decisions, and for that, I need time to plan. But time is my constant companion right now, which I must manipulate to my advantage. My moment will come. I watch her every move. I listen and linger undetected. I know she’ll slip up soon, and that will be my opening to strike and crush her life. I will extinguish her forever. I’ll be the one in the spotlight again.
But I can be patient. For now, I’ll watch from the shadows.
CHAPTER ONE
The head emerged from the water first. Dangling back, it hung awkwardly. Wet black hair stuck to the scalp, face, and neck. The odd strand slipped into her mouth. Her glassy brown eyes were wide open, frozen in time, as her naked body bobbed in and out of the icy cold water. A film of grit from the River Thames clung to her body and discoloured her white skin with a tinge of dirty brown. Beneath that, her body was flawless, toned and slim with pert breasts the ideal size for her small frame. Freshly french-manicured nails, which were now caked in London’s sewerage water, were another sign that she’d taken care of herself. She had no tattoos, scars, or imperfections, except for the gaping wound in her chest.
Detective Inspector Denis Hamilton wrapped his red scarf a little tighter around the neck of his long, tailored, wool coat as he watched the scene from the river bank. He wanted to survey the surrounding area, soak up all the visual information possible before joining the team to gather the specifics. He was clean-shaven, as always, despite the early hour. But he wished he had grabbed his hat before rushing from his home because his cropped hair was useless at shielding the chill. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, sighed heavily, and made his way towards the murder scene.
The police divers struggled to the bank with her lifeless body, where the pathology team was in place and waiting. They had erected a white tent twenty feet from the edge of the river to examine the woman and collect evidence from the water.
“What are you waiting for?
” questioned the head pathologist, Laura Joseph. “Bring her body into the tent immediately! The less she’s exposed to the elements, the better chance we have to determine exactly what happened here.” She urgently ushered the divers into the tent.
Hamilton caught up with his partner, Detective Sergeant Lewis Clarke on the pathway adjacent to the tent. “Nice of you to join us, gov.” Clarke greeted him with the usual sarcasm.
“Unlike you, Lewis, I do not enjoy being summoned from my bed at three a.m. on a cold December morning,” he replied abruptly. “I would like to spend a few moments in bed with my wife before being called out on the next case.”
“Only takes you a few moments, eh?” Clarke continued to jest, but evidently clocked the stern expression on his partner’s face. “Sorry, gov, how is the missus?”
“We’re not here for chit-chat, Lewis. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not in the mood anyway. Let’s head over, and you can brief me on what you know so far.”
Hamilton and Clarke had been partners for four years, so they were comfortable with each other’s attitudes. The detectives quickly stomped through the crisp leaves, scrunching under their heavy footsteps, and Clarke explained that he didn’t have any information about the victim as yet. A forensic pathologist stood by the entrance of the tent and handed them each a pair of shoe covers.
“Don’t want you contaminating our scene now do we, detectives?” The man smiled.
“Thanks,” Hamilton replied as he slipped the woven disposable material over his shiny black brogues.
When they were both ready, he pulled back the flap of the tent and entered to find Laura bent over the dead body.
“So what can you tell us?” Clarke fired the first question, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Well, she’s dead,” Laura returned coldly.
“Okay, this is going to get us nowhere.” Hamilton sighed. “Good morning, night, or afternoon—however you want to greet each other at ungodly hour, I don’t really care. But let’s show some degree of professionalism.”
The pathologist stood on one side of the tent and glared at the two detectives opposite her. Nobody spoke. The wind howled against the thin white tent surrounding them, the cold weather mirroring the frosty atmosphere.
Hamilton had no choice but to take charge of the situation. “It’s freezing. You have your job to do, and we have ours, so can you please tell us what you’ve discovered so far? Then we can leave you in peace to start your investigation.”
Laura rolled her eyes but said nothing. Hamilton knew she didn’t have a problem with detectives from the London Metropolitan Police as a whole, but Clarke brought out the worst in her. The pair had shared a rocky past, and he didn’t want to encourage a resurgence in the middle of a crime scene. He was confident she would play ball, if only to get his partner out of her tent.
She answered, looking directly at Hamilton. “I don’t think this one should be too hard for you, boys.” Laura let her words hang in the air for a moment longer than necessary. “The victim’s name is Michelle Young. She was twenty-seven years of age and lived right here in Central London. Of course, you’ll have to wait until after the post-mortem for the official cause of death, but off the record, she died from a single stab wound to the heart.”
CHAPTER TWO
Grace bolted up in bed, panicking. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her hair stuck to her clammy neck. She panted sharply and tapped the base of her bedside lamp, summoning the light into the room. Her eyes adjusted to her surroundings. The pristine black suit dress and jacket hung on the wardrobe door, fresh from the dry-cleaner’s. The walls were covered in photographs of happy, smiling friends and family, and the shelves were crammed with an enormous book collection. She was safe at home. Although her breathing slowly began to steady to an even pace, and the visions of her nightmare had faded to a blur, she couldn’t shake the terrifying feeling. That was the first night Grace dreamt of a dead body.
Her heavy eyelids tricked her into believing she had been asleep for only twenty minutes; she was surprised to find it was 6:50 a.m. and had actually been sleeping for hours. Diving back under the duvet was pointless since the alarm was set to go off in ten minutes. Grace needed to shower, get dressed, and mentally prepare herself. She had only two hours until the funeral car arrived. It was the day she had been dreading for three weeks. Grace was a strong, confident, and independent person. But she feared she wouldn’t have the strength to cope, because this was the day she had to bury her grandfather.
She absently went through the motions of drying and styling her hair into a neat ponytail; she didn’t want the fuss of it falling on her face today. Staring into space, she drew the black opaque tights over her legs and dressed in her smart but grim suit. She had fallen deep into her memories of the man she’d idolised for as long as she could remember. The knocking on her bedroom door was an unwanted wake-up call, so she ignored the noise.
“Darling, the car is downstairs.” Valerie, Grace’s mother, called from the other side of the door.
Although she offered no reply, Grace heard her mother open the door and walk up behind her. She kept her back turned to Valerie, desperate to stare out the window and stay wrapped in her daydream.
“Sweetheart, the car is downstairs. We’re waiting for you.”
“I know. I’m coming,” Grace replied softly, then finally turned to face her mother.
Neither of them had cried that morning, so they weren’t flush-faced or red-eyed. But her own face surely mirrored her mother’s pale and drained face, as they were similar in looks as much as personality. Valerie’s eyes held a sorrowful gaze that Grace understood deeply, one that no fake smile could hide; so they didn’t try to fake it with each other. Instead, they hugged tightly, and Grace tried to take some strength from the embrace. Once they’d let go, they silently walked downstairs together, out the front door and to the funeral car.
After the service and burial at Kensal Green Cemetery, family and friends came together at The Coach and Horses Public House to pay their respects to a well-liked and respected man. The crowd sang old Irish folk songs and plenty of food, and more than one pint of Guinness, was had by many. Grace wasn’t prepared for the pleasantries and devastated looks. She abhorred the way people tilted their heads when they enquired about how she was coping. She hated when people asked her that, and wondered if it would go down in history as the worst question to ask at a funeral. She told her family she needed some fresh air and would be back shortly, but instead, she found herself walking back to the cemetery to spend a little extra time at her grandfather’s burial place.
“I miss you, Granddad. You were my best friend,” Grace sobbed through her words. She spoke to the pile of dirt that had filled the vast hole in the ground that now held her grandfather’s coffin. “How will I get through Christmas without you?”
She thought of years gone by, of Christmas mornings spent with her mum and dad rushing through breakfast to meet her grandparents in their local pub for a few festive beverages. The meat would have been cooked the night before, and the potatoes and vegetables put on the boil before everyone headed out into the cold Christmas morning. Her grandfather knew everyone in their local pub, and they would all celebrate together before rambling back for dinner and an early evening snooze.
Now she sat on the wet grass, pained by the realisation of never seeing the most influential man in her life again. The dark clouds rumbled above and warned of the torrent they were preparing to unleash.
“But I don’t want to leave you.” Grace threw her arms over the dirt, trying to get closer to her grandfather, and bawled. Safe in the knowledge that no one could see her breakdown, she allowed the ground to dampen her clothes while she dampened the soil with her tears in return.
Half an hour later, she sat up and tried to regain some control over her emotions. The first wet droplet smacked down on her head.
“I think that really is my sign to leave. I know you hated these emotional outbur
sts anyway. My kidneys are too close to my eyes, I suppose.” She smiled at the thought of the saying her grandfather used when anyone dared cry in his company.
Grace got to her feet and drew a few deep breaths. She had mustered enough courage to return to her family and mourn with them.
“I definitely need a few drinks,” she said, patting the earth a final time before leaving the cemetery.
CHAPTER THREE
The bile rose in Grace’s mouth, and with no chance of making it to the bathroom, she hung her body over the side of the bed and threw up over her wooden bedroom floor. The translucent vomit formed a puddle as she pulled herself into an upright position. She reached over to her bedside table and wanted to cry when she realised the glass of water, that she normally took to bed with her every night, wasn’t there. The room spun, drummers used the inside of her head as an instrument, and her tongue felt like sandpaper. The sickly feeling took hold of her again, and she jerked to the side once more, unable to control the violent rejection her stomach had to its contents.
She mustered the energy to pull herself up again and was startled to find her mother standing in the doorway. Grace shook her head and held up her hand, fearing an imminent lecture. Valerie stepped into the room, eyeing her with disdain, but Grace was more interested in what she held in her hands: a glass of water and a packet of painkillers. She reached out weakly, and Valerie walked over to her.
“Well, look at the state of you.” Her mother’s mouth turned down. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Grace Murphy. Getting wasted at your grandfather’s wake is one thing, and maybe I could have put it down to grief, but downing shots at the bar and dancing on tables! Then just up and leaving without so much as a goodbye. I’m so disappointed in you. I can’t believe you acted like that. Your grandfather would have been ashamed.”
Grace felt her mother’s voice boom through her delicate ears as if she had used a microphone. She searched her memories but drew a blank. “I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t remember anything from the wake.” She rubbed her forehead.
