Dedication
For Jennie, Chloe and Alex,
who shared this lockdown novel with me.
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Day One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Day Two
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
Day Three
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
Day Four
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Day Five
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Day Six
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Day Seven
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Author Biography
Also by M.J. Arlidge
Credits
Copyright
Day One
Chapter 1
He didn’t want to move, but he knew he had to. He had come too far, risked too much, to back out now. Steeling himself, he crept forward, his eyes scanning the gloomy yard. If there was any movement, any possibility of being detected, then he would turn and run without a second thought. But there was nothing, no sign of life at all, so he pressed on.
The Portakabin lay directly in front of him, lonely and isolated in the darkness. A dull glow crept from beneath the blinds, the sole indication that it was inhabited. Anyone stumbling upon this yard might easily have missed the anomaly – this was a place where things came to rot and die; a dumping ground for abandoned cars and household junk. Curiosity was not encouraged, the entrance gates were chained and, though he had snapped the padlock easily, he was sure no one else had been tempted to try. You wouldn’t set foot in this place unless you had to, nor would you assume that a treasure trove of secrets lay just beyond the stained door of the Portakabin.
The ground was littered with rusting exhaust pipes, empty packing cases and abandoned white goods. It would be easy to kick something in the darkness, alerting his victim, so he moved forward carefully, teasing his way through the detritus. In the distance, a siren wailed, startling a bird which took flight, squawking loudly, but he ignored it, grimly focused on the task in hand.
Reaching the Portakabin, he paused, pressing himself up against its filthy carapace, craning around to peer through the window. The glass was grimy, coated in bird mess and dirt, so his view was blurred, yet he could still make out the figure inside. Overweight, sprawling, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s clamped in his hand, Declan McManus slumbered on a tired sofa. McManus looked totally out of it, utterly at peace with the world, which seemed profoundly odd given the grave danger he was in. Surely he wouldn’t have been so relaxed had he known that his hiding place had been discovered, that someone else knew his secret?
He counted silently to ten, wanting to be sure that McManus was asleep, then quietly stepped up to the door. Still there was no sound within, so reaching out a gloved hand, he turned the handle. His heart was thumping, his hand shaking, as he teased it downwards. This was the point of maximum risk, when his approach was most likely to be detected, but the handle slid down easily. Cautiously, he eased the door open, preparing to cross the threshold. As he did so, however, the aged hinge started to protest, screaming out in alarm. Horrified, the intruder froze, uncertain what to do, then acting on instinct, he yanked the door fully open. The hinge squeaked briefly, then was silent once more. Stepping inside, he cast an anxious eye towards the sleeping man, but McManus hadn’t stirred, the near-empty bottle of bourbon having done its work.
He closed the door, the sounds of the night suddenly dying away. Now it was just the two of them, cocooned inside this sad space. It was even more unpleasant and odorous than he’d anticipated, a fitting backdrop for the grubby individual in front of him. This was where McManus hid his spoils, conducted his business, brought young girls. He shuddered to think what had occurred within these four walls, but he was not here to dwell on past crimes, he was here to do a job. To do what was necessary. Many lives had been blighted by this man, but perhaps after tonight he would do no more harm.
Stepping forward, he looked down at the comatose figure. Part of him still expected McManus to rear up, wrapping his sweaty palms around his neck … but he lay still, undisturbed and unsuspecting. There was nothing stopping him, no imminent danger, no chance of detection. This was it.
It was time to kill.
Chapter 2
The pale face stared up at her, tranquil but lifeless. Detect
ive Inspector Helen Grace had encountered many bodies in Jim Grieves’s mortuary, but this one brought a lump to her throat. They always did when they were young.
The girl lying half hidden beneath the crisp white sheet was only sixteen years old. Eve Sutcliffe, a gifted student at the prestigious Milton Downs Ladies’ Academy, still awaiting the results of her GCSEs. Long auburn hair framed a pretty face still touched by teenage hormones, a cluster of spots decorating her left cheek. The beauty in her features, the serenity of her expression, however, hid the brutality of her murder.
‘Blunt force trauma,’ Jim Grieves growled. ‘From the shape and size of the impact wound, I’d say we’re talking about a hammer. Was anything recovered from the scene?’
Shaking her head, Helen leaned forward as Jim Grieves turned the deceased to reveal a bloody mess at the back of her skull. The young girl’s half-naked body had been found in bushes in Lakeside Country Park five days ago. No weapon had been discovered, no witnesses unearthed, nor did they have any offenders under consideration. Helen had been hoping Jim Grieves would give her something to work with, but he quickly put paid to that notion.
‘Not much more to tell you, I’m afraid. She was struck eight, possibly nine times, with considerable force, fracturing her skull and leading to massive internal bleeding. She probably wouldn’t have been conscious after the second blow, but even so …’
‘Any hairs? Sweat? Blood?’
Grieves shook his head.
‘Nothing under her fingernails, no sign of a struggle. I imagine that she was approached from behind and subdued before she had a chance to fight back.’
‘What about semen? On the body, on the clothes?’
‘You’ll have to ask Meredith about her clothes, but there’s nothing on or in the body; in fact, there’s no sign of sexual assault per se, no scratching or bruising around the genitals. She was sexually active, but not in the days, possibly weeks, leading up to her death.’
Already Helen’s mind was turning. Was there a boyfriend on the scene? Someone she’d recently broken up with? Someone who felt angry and spurned? Or was this a random act of violence, a young girl falling victim to a vicious, sexually motivated stranger?
‘So, her attacker was intent on assaulting her, but lost his nerve? Got frightened off?’
‘You tell me, you’re the detective,’ Grieves fired back, with grim relish.
Helen took the hit, privately acknowledging that the title had never felt more like a millstone. So much bloodshed, so much heartache of late, yet so little to go on. Recently, Helen had felt like she was swimming with one hand tied behind her back, drowning in a rising tide of violence and brutality.
‘I’ve got a couple more bits and pieces to do,’ Grieves continued, in conciliatory mode, ‘and if I find anything significant, I’ll let you know. I just wanted to give you my initial findings.’
‘Thanks, Jim. I appreciate it.’
And she did. But it didn’t help her. The memories of Eve’s devastated parents – their desolation, their agony – were still fresh in Helen’s mind. It was a case that demanded to be solved, not just for Eve’s sake, but for others who might yet be in danger from this violent offender, but so far they had nothing. Staring down at the girl’s innocent face, Helen was filled with guilt and sadness – for the loss of all that Eve might have been, all she might have become.
For a young life brutally snuffed out.
Chapter 3
The lighter sparked in his hand, then died. He wanted to scream, to spew out his rage and anxiety, but there was no question of that – his victim lay only a few yards from him, docile but dangerous. If McManus awoke now, if he took the fight to his assailant, there would only be one winner.
He tried again, the lighter clicking out its quiet, hopeless rhythm. Still it didn’t catch, remaining lifeless in his hand. It made no sense, he’d only bought it yesterday – it was full of fuel. He’d used it on the way here, one last cigarette, and it had worked perfectly. So what was the problem now? Yes, his hand was shaking, but surely not enough to disable the device?
He tried again, aggressively, persistently. It sparked, more encouragingly this time, but the flame burnt only briefly before going out. And now McManus stirred, snorting and rubbing his nose, disturbed by the click, click, click of the lighter. He was moving, shifting his substantial weight on the tired faux-leather sofa, which squeaked loudly in response, disturbing him still further. A frown, a cough and then he dropped the bottle of bourbon, which landed on the floor with a heavy thunk. Now his body shivered, as if juddering back into consciousness. There was no doubt about it – he was about to wake up.
Trying to calm himself, the intruder stared at the lighter, willing it to work. He pressed the small metal wheel and pushed down hard. Once, twice, three times and now – miraculously – a flame sprang up. A strong, steady flame. His breath hissed from him, tension flooding from his body, and he didn’t hesitate, raising the flame to the milk bottle he was clutching in his left hand. The dirty rag hung, moist and heavy, in the bottle’s mouth, asking to be ignited. Carefully holding it to the flame, he watched with excitement as the homemade fuse took. Now the fire was working its way up the primed rag towards the petrol inside.
Taking a step back, he looked down at the man in front of him. His eyelids were flickering, he was only moments from consciousness, so, raising his arm, he hurled the bottle down. Smashing on the hard floor, it exploded into flame, greedily latching on to the spilt whisky, the aged sofa, the man’s clothes. The ferocity, the heat, was far greater than his attacker had expected and he stumbled backwards, away from the conflagration, suddenly fearful for his own safety.
Retreating, he grasped the door handle gratefully, yanking it open. He was about to run through the open doorway – run away as fast he could – but now something, some semblance of calm, some fragment of his planning – made him pause. Refusing to look backwards at the scene of horror, he gathered himself, reaching down to pull the key from the lock. Then, moving swiftly and silently, he stepped out of the Portakabin, shutting the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.
Stepping out into the cool night air, he hurried down the stairs, desperate to be away from this awful place. But even as he did so, a sound from within the burning cabin stopped him dead in his tracks.
A single, agonized scream.
Chapter 4
He hurried down the alleyway, eagerly searching for his prize. A sharp-eyed constable had spotted it half an hour earlier and Detective Sergeant Joseph Hudson had wasted no time in responding. Running to the bike park, he’d raced across town, determined to have something to show for the day.
The officer now came into view, standing guard over the abandoned BMW. Hudson was convinced the stolen car would’ve been stripped, then dumped, and his instinct had been proved right. Here was the prestige vehicle he’d been seeking, the proud status symbol that someone had been prepared to kill for.
‘I haven’t touched it,’ the constable ventured quickly, as Hudson approached. ‘I just clocked the number plate and called it in.’
‘Thank you, Constable …?’
‘Atkins, sir.’
‘Well done, Atkins,’ Hudson responded, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Good work, but I can take it from here …’
The constable nodded, pleased with the compliment, then headed off. Hudson watched him go, gratified to have cultivated another foot soldier, then turned his attention to the abandoned vehicle.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t locked. In fact, it wasn’t even secured, the driver’s door hanging ajar. Donning a pair of gloves, Hudson teased it open, crouching down to peer inside. It was a BMW 5 Series, four years old, but top of the range and, before it had been stolen, it would’ve had a state-of-the-art entertainment and navigation system to compliment the hand-stitched leather interior. Now, however, it was a mess. From the outside, with its striking, metallic paint and tinted windows, it still looked impressive, but the view
from the inside was very different. It had been cannibalized – the screen ripped out to leave hanging wires, the main armrest removed, even the chrome handles had been lifted. He was surprised to see the leather seats still in place, but perhaps the thief was an amateur, keen to make a quick buck. If so, he hoped he’d got a good price. The cost had been high and the reckoning would be severe.
Hudson’s eyes were now drawn to the dark stains in the driver’s footwell, then to the rust-coloured smears on the window next to it. Up until ten days ago, this prestige vehicle had belonged to Alison Burris, an administrative manager at Southampton’s Children’s Hospital. It had been an extravagant anniversary present from her besotted husband and it was her pride and joy. She always parked it in a discreet car park, a couple of blocks from the hospital, and it was there that she was targeted one Wednesday night, shortly after midnight.
It was perhaps foolish of her to be alone in the car park so late, but still she should have had every reason to feel safe. As it was, she was set upon by a car jacker as she attempted to drive home. A struggle ensued – her clothing was torn, a clump of hair ripped out – as Burris battled to fight off the thief. It had proved a bad call, the young professional stabbed twice in the heart, before her attacker made off with her vehicle.
Alison Burris was found by a businessman just after midnight, but by then she was long dead. Hudson was the SIO on the scene and was quick to put the pieces together. There had been a spate of luxury car thefts in Southampton of late, another front in their battle against rising crime in the city, though few of them had been as violent as this one. As Hudson had crouched down over the poor woman’s body, his eyes had been drawn to the narrow, cylindrical wounds in her flesh. He was still waiting on the post-mortem – Jim Grieves had a backlog of bodies – but Hudson had a pretty good idea of what killed Burris. She had been felled by a sharpened screwdriver, rammed into her heart at close quarters. It was a sickening way to die and for what? There was a thriving market for black-market car parts in Southampton, had been ever since the post-Covid downturn, but even so, what would the thief have got for the parts he lifted? Five thousand pounds? Six? It seemed a paltry payback, but in these troubled times perhaps it was about right. Looking down at the brutalized interior of the car, the blood smears on the window, Hudson reflected that of late one thing had become abundantly clear.
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