Dead Girls: An addictive and darkly funny crime thriller
Dead Girls: An addictive and darkly funny crime thriller
Graeme Cameron
‘Utterly compulsive’ Fiona CumminsFIVE MISSING. THE HUNT IS ON FOR NUMBER SIX.THE SERIAL KILLERWith five girls already missing and two dead police officers to add to the body count, the hunt is on. But how do you catch a man who doesn’t exist?THE VICTIMHeld captive for months, Erica Shaw has now vanished. In the race to find her, the police uncover evidence that leave them wondering, was she ever actually a victim?THE DETECTIVEThis isn’t DS Ali Green’s first murder case. But only recently recovered from her near-fatal injuries and battling some personal demons of her own, she’s out for justice.One thing’s for sure. Not everyone is going to make it out of this alive.
Praise for Graeme Cameron (#ulink_17d4e51f-1ff2-5058-95b2-3385bbb3932e)
‘If you loved Graeme Cameron’s Normal, you’d better hold on tight, because his exceptional follow-up hits it out of the park. Shot through with dry humour and darkness, and starring a female detective who will blow your mind, Dead Girls is an utterly compulsive read’
Fiona Cummins
‘Deeply creepy and very clever story’
Heat
‘An utterly compelling crime novel with an unforgettable heroine. I hope this is only the start of Ali’s story’
Elly Griffiths
‘Hypnotic and chilling – you won’t forget this in a hurry’
Lee Child
‘Blackly humorous …. Normal marks Cameron out as one to watch’
Daily Express
‘Original and gripping’
Clare Mackintosh
‘I didn’t like Normal. I loved it’
Michael Robotham
Copyright (#ulink_0123d1b9-7070-5052-a8ad-56831924aff2)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Graeme Cameron 2018
Graeme Cameron asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9781474046688
For Helen Cadbury, the best and bravest
and
For Derek
Contents
Cover (#u83e9a7fa-ebbe-52a3-aaef-3f1b5cfd68b4)
Praise (#ulink_c745cca6-5b06-5dde-b248-b2a900fcf265)
Title Page (#u393eecc2-e0eb-5343-8773-bb2c81d17b42)
Copyright (#ulink_d3f54ff0-7f07-5e26-ac01-7dfadd490463)
Dedication (#uc8950895-1965-5808-bf6b-0930e5852ce3)
Episode 1 (#ulink_86c29f89-9ce2-5eef-9e46-d397178dabba)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_ca91fd81-016c-5431-9817-e042766ee8d3)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_6fcfa4c5-3521-5a03-9405-64970ded7faa)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_65c6bc2f-16a8-5a72-baac-39c1a52e8f0a)
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Episode 2
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Meanwhile . . .
Episode 3
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Episode 4
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Episode 5
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Episode 6
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
Extract (#u901c0a2f-65f2-56d9-9a5b-312325a00c24)
About the Publisher
‘Something’s wrong.’
Detective Sergeant Eli Diaz, formerly of Thetford CID, latterly seconded to the Major Investigation Team at Police Headquarters, and until today engaged in the search for a number of young women missing from across the county, took a moment to consider the redundancy of his statement.
He was standing at the foot of a metal-framed single bed, bolted into the ground through the black rubber floor. The bed was in a steel mesh cage some twenty feet across, the cage in a basement, the basement concealed beneath a garage, the garage nestled beside a stone cottage in a twenty-acre clearing in the forest.
It belonged to a man largely suspected, at least until that moment, of harbouring Erica Shaw, formerly a missing young woman, latterly upgraded to the status of fugitive, and last seen in front of the garage an hour ago, shooting one person dead and attempting to kill two of Eli’s fellow detectives before effecting her escape.
And now one of those detectives, Sergeant Ali Green, formerly of Norwich CID, latterly of the aforementioned Major Investigation Team, and currently somewhere up there alone with that man, was not answering her phone.
Diaz snatched up his own phone from the floor where he’d thrown it and made for the door of the cage, throwing an afterthought of a wave at a constable who was about to feel very alone and decidedly uneasy. ‘Keep trying to call her,’ he barked.
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the splintering pain in his skull from misjudging the height of the false cupboard as he burst through into the garage.
‘Green,’ he snapped, seizing on the first pair of eyes to meet his own; one of the DCs from Norwich Road, he thought. Winters or Winterbourne or something. ‘Have you seen Ali Green?’
A shrug. A confused shake of the head. A voice from somewhere behind him: ‘She’s with the owner. They were heading to the house.’
‘Fuck.’ Less a word than a grunt, choked by panic. Diaz bolted from the garage into chaos and driving rain, shouldering aside the crime scene techs struggling to erect a white tent over the body on the drive, forgetting his breathing, legs out of sync, staggering at full tilt toward the house, nothing like the machine he imagined himself on his morning run, as though the absence of lycra and trainers and a Fitbit reduced him to a gangly, stumbling foal.
He knew before he got there that he was out of control and wasn’t going to stop, that if the door didn’t break when he hit it, then this was going to hurt.
It was ajar. He wasn’t expecting that. It cannoned back on its hinges, barely slowing his progress, and his feet found a bundle of coats and an overturned hat stand and then he was sliding on his face across the hallway, breath punched out of his lungs, skin peeling from his nose and elbows and knees.
He didn’t notice the pain. Fear had him on his feet and pushing off from the wall that had further dented his head and he whirled around from door to door, from kitchen to stairs to living room.
He stopped dead still and held his breath; strained his ears over the roar of the rain and the chatter of radios and uniforms and diesel engines.
Silence.
He gambled on the kitchen, sliding to the edge of the door frame and peering inside. Empty. Chair upturned. A slippery crimson mess on the splintered oak floor. His stomach flipped and he tasted bile in his throat. Christ no, what did he do to her?
Opposite the kitchen, the living room. The door open. A sense of something inside. A sofa. A spray of dark hair. Stillness.
Diaz panted three painful breaths and, with one eye on the top of the stairs, edged to the door, darting his head just far enough inside to get a snapshot of the room.
Empty, except for her.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. His back to the hallway. His ears wide open. ‘Green?’
No reply.
‘Ali?’ he snapped, loud enough to startle himself.
Nothing.
He blew out the adrenaline from his lungs. Checked the stairs again. Winced at the pain in his head. Squeezed his fingers into his palms and nodded some kind of vain self-encouragement. Then he said, ‘It’s okay, I’m here,’ and stepped inside the room.
It was cold. Cold, and still, and quiet. The television was on, but it wasn’t regular programming, it was something else, and Diaz knew what from a single glance. It was a high-definition feed from inside the cage, where the constable he’d just left behind was still poking at his phone, presumably searching for a number he didn’t have.
It was dark, too. The curtains were drawn across both of the windows, one to the front and one to the side, and the lamps were off and the fire unlit and everything was shadow; the hulking bookcases overstuffed with books and trinkets and paperwork, the corner tables with their strange disfigurines, the long, low couch and the wingback chairs and the coffee table with the two full mugs and the solitary mobile phone – everything but the TV screen and the dome of light that it cast, unflickering but dancing with particles of dust, and reflected as two tiny pinpricks of silver in Ali Green’s eyes.
They were open, but vague, unfocused. Her legs had fallen open and her hands lay at her sides, fingers curled into her upturned palms, and her hair was splayed roughly over the back of the sofa where she’d slumped down in her seat. Her mouth was open and as Diaz knelt, cursing, between her knees, he could see the pool of saliva around her tongue and hear it bubbling in her throat as she took each shallow, unsteady breath.
‘Ali,’ he whispered, suddenly painfully aware of the silence and the need to preserve it, to hear whatever small sound she might make, should it be her last. ‘Can you hear me?’ He placed a hand on her arm and could feel a trembling that he couldn’t see, a vibration almost, from deep inside her somewhere, but she didn’t respond, didn’t so much as blink.
He leaned in closer then, moved to put his lips to her ear, but the blood stopped him. A thin trail, trickling through the neat channel between her ear – such delicate ears, he noted, and pointed sweetly at the top, like pixie ears – and the back of her jaw, and down the side of her neck and onto the collar of her shirt, to bloom inside her jacket.
He painfully swallowed his breath and rocked back on his haunches and pulled out his phone from his pocket and said, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, Ali, you’re going to be okay,’ as calmly as he could, as though he believed it. And he punched in the code to unlock the phone, and keyed in the number to summon help, and he looked up into her eyes and was startled to see that she was looking right back at him in piercing focus, and her lips were moving as though she were trying to speak, and he let the phone drift away from his ear as he nodded and said, ‘You’re okay,’ and placed a comforting hand on her knee.
‘B—’ she whispered. ‘B—’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, shaking his head and nodding at the same time and hearing the voice on the other end of the phone and shushing and telling her, ‘Help’s coming. Just relax, you’ll be okay. We’re going to find him.’
And he raised the phone back to his ear, and the voice on the phone said, ‘Sarge?’ and Ali Green said, ‘Beh—’ and a single tear rolled down her cheek, and his breath caught in his throat and in the second before she closed her eyes, one of the tiny spots of silver turned black.
And all he could think of to say was, ‘He’s behind me, isn’t he.’
EPISODE 1 (#ulink_9fa0129f-0c32-5086-8741-97cf0ee595ea)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_2ede4027-6837-556a-9e98-d03242ba9a34)
Two months later
It’s funny, isn’t it, how your mind can always find a way to surprise you? Take mine, for example. After thirty-four years together, I like to think I know it pretty well. And having spent the whole of my childhood being forcibly drummed into myself, and most of my adult life breaking my back to conform to it, God knows I should. And yet, here I was with an unexpected dilemma.
I could hear my phone ringing over the splashing and thumping coming from the bathroom, and I knew that at six in the morning the call was likely important enough that I should answer it. But I didn’t know where I’d left it, and that was a problem.
Normally, like anyone else, I’d crawl out of bed, take a moment to steady myself and for my head to stop spinning, and I’d assume I’d left it in my bag and that my bag was in the lounge, and I’d go find it. And if it wasn’t there and had stopped ringing, I’d call it from the house phone and sooner or later I’d track it down and return the call and receive some bad news and then drink a gallon of coffee in the vain hope that it might make me somewhat safe to drive, and I’d get dressed in a hurry and be on my way.
But I couldn’t do that, not this morning. For one thing, unlike most mornings, I was completely naked under the duvet, and the one eye I could open was so blurry and achey that I couldn’t see any of my clothes. Which, given the mortifying likelihood of bumping into whoever was about to jump out of the shower, meant wrapping myself in a king-size quilt and stumbling around trying to figure out the layout of this house, which, I dimly realised, wasn’t mine.
And now the ringing had stopped, and the light shafting through the thin blind was a dagger to my skull, and then the shower was abruptly silent and my heart began to thump against my ribs and all I could think to do was pull the covers over my head and pretend I didn’t exist.
I don’t know how long I waited. I heard footsteps on the landing, the creaking of stairs; assorted kitchen clangs and clunks and tinkles. My phone again. Damn it. And then the footsteps coming back up the stairs, and the ringing getting louder, and oh God, it was coming into the room.
‘Hmm.’
I froze.
‘Well I’m sure she was in here a few minutes ago.’ A woman’s voice, faintly familiar. ‘Where on earth could she be?’
Dazed now, utterly confused. The phone still ringing. A clunk above my head – a mug on the table? A weight beside me, the edge of the bed sagging beneath it, pulling me towards it.
‘Are you alive under there?’
I took three breaths, and nodded.
‘Are you nodding?’
I shook my head, and heard a giggle.
‘There’s coffee here. And your phone’s ringing.’
‘I know,’ I croaked. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll just leave it here for you. Are you hungry?’
I wasn’t sure. Horror kind of feels like hunger, right? ‘Probably.’
‘Bathroom’s free,’ she said, and patted my hip through the duvet. ‘I’ll let you answer that.’ Then she stood up and was gone.
I unscrewed my eyes and eased the duvet aside. Blinked the blinding light out of them. There was a plain green mug steaming on the bedside table, face cream and biscuits and tissues and a library book shoved aside to make room. And on the floor beside the bed, my bag, jangling incessantly.
I reached down, hissing away a twinge in my back, and dug out my phone. I begged it to stop ringing, but someone was unshakeably determined to speak to me. Kevin, as it turned out. I answered. ‘Kevin,’ I sighed.
‘Ali,’ said Kevin, ‘it’s Kevin.’ Which I knew. ‘Where are you?’
I have no fucking idea. ‘What do you mean, where am I? I’m in bed. It’s fuck-off o’clock in the morning. What do you want?’
‘It’s six eighteen,’ he said, ‘the sun’s been up for over an hour and you need to be here twenty minutes ago.’
From the gentle mooing in the background, I deduced that he was most likely overdramatising. ‘I can hear cows,’ I yawned, and peeked inside the little drawer of the bedside table. It was full of hair ties and old sweets, pastel-coloured biros and Blu Tack and various kinds of charger.
‘I’m standing in a field.’
‘Sounds thrilling,’ I said, ‘but you’ve got the wrong Monday. I’m not back until next week.’ I picked up the library book; The Good Girl, it was called. I cringed.
‘Not any more.’
‘I think you’ll find I am,’ I laughed. Laughing made my forehead throb. My mouth tasted like a badger’s arse. ‘I only saw Occy Health on Friday. I’m still off sick, I’m in bed, I’ve got another headache which you’ve just given me, I’ve got a million and one things to do today, none of which involve farm animals, I’m desperate for a wee, and unless the next thing you say to me is “I’m sorry, Ali, pret—” no, “Sarge. I’m sorry, Sarge, pretend I never rang, take care of yourself, have a good weekend,” I swear to God I’m going to hunt you down and beat you savagely about the face and neck. In a week.’ She was using her library card as a bookmark. It said Edith Macfarlane on it. Christ on a bike, I knew her.
‘I am sorry,’ he sniggered as my heart sank further into my bottom. ‘DCI says otherwise. I thought you’d had a call already, but I guess I’m not surprised. Whatever, this one’s kind of got your name on it.’ He waited for what seemed like days for me to ask him what he meant, but it was quite obviously nothing I wanted to hear, so I didn’t. Also, I was holding my breath in an effort not to wet the bed. Finally, he said, ‘We’ve found John Fairey.’
And I exhaled.
The bathroom was still warm, the window and the mirror still steamed over from Edith’s tenure. The dregs of her bathwater lingered in the bottom of the tub, sending my feet aslither as I cranked open the shower. I braced myself against the tile, gritted my teeth through the cycle of polar-cold and scar-hot until the water settled on a comfortable shade of warm. I scrubbed myself with Edith’s soap until the knot of panic began to unravel. Lathered with Edith’s shampoo. I rinsed the strands of Edith’s hair from my fingers as they attracted to me from Edith’s conditioner bottle. I would have used Edith’s facial scrub, but there was only a small squeeze left in the tube. Instead, barely five minutes after I got in, I shut off the water and, in spite of it still being damp, dried myself with Edith’s towel.
Thankfully, I did have my own clothes, although they were crumpled and smelled of pub and my knickers were a bit the worse for wear. Hearing Edith still downstairs, I eased open the top drawer of her dresser, avoiding my own eye contact in the mirror as I rooted around in the tangle of loosely balled briefs at the back, behind all the neatly folded silky arrangements. I tugged a pair free and shook them out. Hello Kitty. Fine, whatever.
Everything else would have to do. My bra was on its third outing, the cropped black denims maybe their sixth. I had a bright yellow off-the-shoulder top that was okay under the arms but reeked of booze and perfume everywhere else, although deodorant and fresh air would sort that, probably. And I had at least had the accidental foresight to wear shoes I could run in, inclined as I was to duck my head and sprint straight out the door.
But to where?
I gingerly opened the blind, shielding my eyes with my spare hand and squinting through my fingers at the view. There wasn’t much of one; just a row of boxy houses on the other side of the street, driveways lined with German and Swedish cars in various shades of black and grey, including the one directly below the window. Mine is bright red, so it was immediately apparent that it wasn’t there. God, where the hell was it? And, more to the point, where the hell was I?
Edith was easier to locate. She was at the breakfast table, and she greeted me with a ‘Hey’ and a smile. Nothing between the lines; just your usual good-morning pleasantry. She’d clearly been listening out for me; she’d poured me a fresh cup of coffee and a bowl of Rice Krispies and the latter were still popping and cracking, or whatever it is they do. ‘Made you breakfast.’
I sat across from her, silently giving thanks for my complexion; the Middle-Eastern half of me is all on the outside, so I don’t burn in the sun and, more importantly, I blush very, very quietly. ‘Morning,’ I said, my deliberate effort to keep a steady voice naturally achieving the opposite. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sleep well?’
My insides recoiled in horror. Was it a trick question? Could she tell that I had no recollection of the night before? ‘Like a baby,’ I said. ‘You?’
Another neutral smile. ‘As well as can be expected. Did you find your towel?’
Oh. ‘Yes,’ I lied, giving it away by shaking my head at the same time. ‘Thank you.’
I watched her read the Independent as I crunched a mouthful of cereal, wishing there was a radio or television to muffle the sound of my munching. Her own efforts seemed so much more refined than mine.
She’d finished dressing; a black tailored five-button jacket with matching skirt to just below the knee. Her legs stretched beneath the table, her ankles – slender, lightly tanned – crossed comfortably beside my own. Chestnut hair lowlighted in black, thrown up into a loose ponytail. Sunlight, splayed and rainbowed by the flowers and antique bottles on the windowsill, playing on the triangles of her neck, settling in the hollow of her collarbone where it peeked from behind her shirt. The swell of her breas—
‘You okay?’ See anything you like?
I looked up, startled. Felt my face flush. ‘Hmm?’
She folded the paper and tossed it aside, slid her coffee close to her and spooned in sugar from the bowl in the centre of the table. ‘You don’t look very well,’ she said, circling the spoon handle at me as though casting a spell. ‘You’re not going to throw that back up, are you?’
I realised I had a mouthful of lukewarm milk and soggy Rice Krispies which, somewhere along my train of distraction, I’d somehow forgotten to swallow. I did so now. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, flatly.
She gave a cynical snort. ‘Oh, really?’ Stirred her coffee. ‘I’ve seen you looking fine, and it didn’t look like that.’ Raised it to her lips, blew primly across the surface before taking a sip. ‘You’re not upset with me, are you?’
I dropped my spoon into the half-empty cereal bowl and pushed it away, my appetite lost. ‘Of course not.’ Mortified, yes. Confused, bemused and deeply, shamefully embarrassed, but not upset.
‘Good, because . . . you know . . .’
Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. ‘I know.’
‘I mean, it’s not like . . .’
‘No, I know.’
‘I mean, I had a great time last night, but—’
I choked on my coffee. ‘But now I have to go to work,’ I smiled.
She smiled back, and thought for a moment and then looked at the table and nodded firmly and said, ‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘Only I don’t know where my car is.’
‘Ah,’ she chuckled. ‘You left it at the pub, remember?’
No.
‘I’ll drop you off,’ she said. ‘Ready in five?’
I nodded. I didn’t know what else to say, really, so I just blurted out, ‘I borrowed some knickers. Hope you don’t mind.’
She gave a snort and a sideways look. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she laughed. ‘Just . . . have a good day, okay? Be careful, and don’t work too hard.’
‘Oh, I don’t intend to,’ I laughed. Riding out on a shudder of relief at the rapid change of subject, it was a laugh I would have found disproportionate and vaguely chilling were it directed at me. Fortunately, Edith either didn’t notice or at least had the good grace not to raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m . . .’ trying to think of something to say . . . ‘planning on shouting at my boss for dragging me out, and being home in time for Cash in the Attic.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ she agreed, and then giggled to herself. ‘Hey, you know what’d be even better?’
‘What?’
‘Tango & Cash in the Attic.’
Ha ha.
I knew I’d be fixed by lunchtime. The cold light of day would see my head straight and my priorities in order in no time. Or at least that was what I thought.
As it turned out, the light of day was already as hot as the belly of Hell when I stepped from my car onto flame-scorched sand, hung my badge from its lanyard around my neck, and entered a world of violence and horror for the likes of which even the most depraved of my many nightmares had left me woefully underprepared.
It was 6.59 a.m. My name is Alisha Green, and this, to the best of my understanding, is the truth about Erica Shaw.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_2eb2ebaa-b0ed-5583-b4eb-ad2cfac03ad5)
A squirrel darted a stuttering dash along the bough above my head, twitching its velvety grey nose at the edges of the shadows among the leaves and sniffing suspiciously at the encroaching sunlight. In the dense cover high above, a lone woodpigeon flexed its wings and fluttered the sleep from its rumpled feathers. He looked like he’d had a rough night.
I looked worse, if my reflection in the car window was anything to go by. I’d had them both open all the way here, and my undried hair had frizzed up into a bouffant bird’s nest. I slipped the hairband from my wrist and bundled the mess into a rough, damp knot at the base of my neck. If it didn’t improve me, it might at least give the pigeon second thoughts about moving in.
I propped my foot on the sun-bleached picnic trestle beside the car and bent to tighten my shoelace. A pair of wasps buzzed hungrily around the rubbish bin beside me, keeping a respectful distance from one another as they took turns to dive inside for a bite. A third investigated the sticky rim of a Coke can, idly dropped in the grass not three feet away, the silvered peaks of its crushed carcass shimmering thousands of tiny jewels of light across the fixed-penalty warning notice plastered to the receptacle. No Littering. Maximum fine£2,500. The futility of mandatory environmental correctness, summed up in a shiny red aluminium nutshell. I picked up the can and disposed of it properly. The wasp didn’t flinch.
This, right here, is the kind of peace I crave: the earlymorning sun prickling my upturned face; the idle lapping of the river against the pebbles on the bank; the soft quirrup of ducklings perpetually distracted from the arduous task of keeping up with mum; the merest whisper of distant traffic, just there enough to temper the isolation without intruding on the blissful, cossetting quiet of—
‘Oi! Pocahontas! Over here!’
Oh. Right. Kevin.
I took in a lingering lungful of cowshit and pollen.
Geoff Green – no relation – greeted me with an indifferent nod as I slipped between my Alfa and the adjacent patrol car. I’d seen the burly constable around often enough to know his name, but his snakelike eyes and disdainful demeanour had always deterred me from wanting to know much more about him. Whether he perpetually wished he were somewhere else, or simply didn’t like the look of me any more than I did him, I couldn’t entirely tell. Nor did I particularly care.
Geoff had been left in charge of guarding the inner perimeter. It was clearly a hurried affair, the blue-and-white warning tape sagging between posts speared skew-wiff and at random intervals into the sandy earth as it bisected the picnic site. It also seemed a somewhat extraneous measure, given that the access road was barricaded by patrol cars at its inception half a mile back, the car park entrance was itself taped and guarded, and a fourth cordon encircled what seemed to be the object of the collective attention – a burned-out car slumped at the far side of the clearing.
If I’d known him better, I might have accused Geoff of erecting the barrier himself, just to look as though he had something important to do. However, half a dozen years having passed between us without the need for small talk, and with neither of us any more inclined than the other to fix what wasn’t broken, I kept my suspicions to myself and simply returned Geoff’s sulky nod as I ducked under the tape, which he lifted just high enough to garrotte me had I not been half-expecting it.
At the other end of the mood swing, and entirely at odds with his tone on the phone, Kevin McManus was a veritable grin on a stick. He picked through a maze of yellow plastic markers and staked-off squares of sand, sterile suit rustling, teeth flashing, arms wide like he thought he was going to get a hug. ‘You know, for a minute I thought you might blow me out,’ he crowed, his voice sounding hollow and windswept against the squawk and chatter of radios and crime scene techs and the rattle and hum of a diesel generator.
‘Save it,’ I warned him. ‘You’re at the top of my shitlist today.’
‘Well, aren’t we the little ray of sunshine?’ In defiance of the mechanics of the human face, and presumably working on the assumption that I was joking, he broadened his smile to within a whisker of obscuring his own vision. ‘Listen, don’t go shooting the messenger, okay? You know I wouldn’t kick you out of bed without—’
I choked on my own spit.
‘I mean. . . You know, drag you out of—’
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
Oh, Jesus Christ, Kevin. ‘Anyone you like. Take your time, I’ve got all day.’
‘John,’ he remembered, with none of the exaggerated embarrassment you or I might affect when caught with our wits down. Instead, he ran a hand through his dark, wiry mop and scratched at the short patch over his crown, a remnant of a recent pistol-whipping. ‘He’s, um . . . in the car,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, it’s . . .’ He glanced over his shoulder at the remains of the car and just sort of sighed.
‘What about DC Keith? Any sign?’ John Fairey hadn’t been alone when he’d seemingly vanished into thin air; there was no trace of the freshly minted detective he’d snagged for a dogsbody, either.
Kevin gave me a shrug and a sympathetic smile. ‘I’ll get you a suit,’ he said.
‘Where’s Mal?’
‘The what?’ Kevin dropped a fetching pair of white rubber boots at my feet and handed me the paper jumpsuit he’d retrieved from the back of the nearby CSI van. He’d tried to flirt with Sandra, the duty pathologist, but she was on the phone and had batted him away with an irritable glare. His smile had faded rapidly.
‘Mal,’ I repeated. ‘Mal Lowry. He should be here.’
Kevin narrowed his eyes and nodded with a look that said No shit, Sherlock. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ve all got personal problems, right?’
I didn’t know what he meant by that; I just knew it didn’t explain where my DCI was. I flattened the suit out on the ground and slipped my feet into the leg holes. ‘You know what else I can’t see?’ I pulled it up to my waist and realised I had it back to front.
‘What?’
‘Any bodies in that car. Where are they?’ Did I turn the suit once or twice? It now appeared to be upside down.
‘I was getting to that.’ Kevin eyed the jumpsuit curiously as I attempted vainly to pass it behind my back without reversing it. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Could you?’ I don’t know how many of these godforsaken things I’ve had to clamber into over the course of my career, but it’s one of those tasks – most of which, come to think of it, seem to involve items of apparel – for which practice will never make perfect. I will never be able tie an apron behind my back, and I will never be able to get into a front-fastening one-piece paper jumpsuit without the assistance of a third party. Fact of life.
‘Don’t worry about Lowry,’ he said, which seemed strange, because I wasn’t. ‘Just enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.’ He turned me around by the shoulders, scrunched the suit up in his hands and squatted behind me, tapping each of my legs in turn as he wanted them lifted and lowered. ‘’Scuse fingers.’
‘Keep them below the knee,’ I laughed. ‘Geoff’s watching.’
The constable looked casually away as Kevin yanked the suit up over my hips and said, ‘I think he’s got the hots for you, you know.’
I stifled a chuckle. ‘Well, he all but pulls my hair every time he sees me,’ I said.
‘Boys are always mean to girls they like,’ he agreed, standing to guide my arms into the appropriate holes and slide the shoulders of the suit up onto my own. ‘You can manage the zip on your own, right?’
I gave him a withering look and said, ‘Ha bloody ha. Who called us?’ as I fumbled hopelessly with the zip and Kevin pretended not to notice the trembling in my fingers.
‘The usual,’ he said, handing me a full-face particulate mask. ‘Dog walker. Said his dog wouldn’t stop barking at it, so he took a peek. Watches a lot of true crime shows.’
‘Him or the dog?’
‘Not sure.’
‘What time?’
‘Five thirty-five.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I sent him home. He’ll come in this afternoon if we need him to.’
‘You talked to him yourself?’
‘Yep.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Genuine.’
I nodded and snapped the mask over my head and Kevin did the same. ‘Ogay,’ I said, waving to Sandra and getting a thumbs-up in return. ‘Ned dayg a nook.’
There was no denying it was my old partner’s Mondeo. I’d spent a lot of hours staring pointedly out of the window of that car, or gripping the sides of my seat, or instinctively thumping my right foot onto an imaginary brake pedal. I was in it when he creased the wheel arch against a bollard, and I was standing right where I was now when he kicked the dent into the front wing in anger at some humiliation or other. My seat was gone, just a buckled metal frame remaining. The worn carpet in the footwell was gone, too – in fact everything was gone; it was just a ravaged shell. But those dents were as good as a fingerprint.
It wasn’t blue any more. It was orange and black and brown, rust and soot and death. It sat sadly on its sills in the sand, one back door hanging limp on twisted hinges. The roof sagged from front to back, the tailgate bent on its frame so that the lid reared up, arched like a mouth shrieking in horror. And in that mouth was what I could only assume were the remains of my two former colleagues.
Bone is bone. It doesn’t really look like anything else. I suppose I could have convinced myself it was coral, or pebbles at a push, but I didn’t bother to try. It was a grey rubble of bone, fragmented, cemented with splatters of rain-pasted ash. To my untrained eye it could have been anyone, or anything. Sure, I know all the words; I read the same books you read. Skull sutures. Pubic symphysis. Phalanges, which just reminds me of Phoebe from Friends. I could even tell you what they mean, and relate the most reliable method of estimating the height of a person from their skeleton, or of determining the gender and racial profile of a skull. But I’m no more than an armchair expert; my opinion isn’t worth the calories I’d expend merely forming it, and the jigsaw puzzle in front of me now was far beyond my understanding of how a person could even begin to make sense of it. And so, knowing in my gut that this was the final resting place of Detective Inspector John Fairey and Detective Constable Julian Keith, I resisted the urge to plunge my hand into the ashes, pull out a shard of calcined something-or-other and shout ‘Aha’, and I walked away from the car.
‘Okay, first screamingly obvious things first,’ I said, once I’d flicked the mask off my face and could breathe again. I pointed at the square of blackened grass beneath my feet; one of a dozen I could see, evidence of a summer of careless barbecuing. ‘There are burn marks just about everywhere except under the car. Who’s out looking for the crime scene?’
Kevin looked from me to the car and back again, and scratched the back of his head. ‘Not organised that yet,’ he said, which I had to concede was an accurate if inexhaustive statement. ‘Been a little bit busy on my own here. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet.’
Signed off till Monday. Not going to feel guilty for having breakfast. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ I said, although I knew Sandra had probably beaten him here and taken control of the scene herself. ‘We haven’t got the whole car here. The bumpers, the tyres, all of the plastic and rubber bits that have melted off. They’re not here. We’re missing a debris field. Plus there are no drag marks, but there’s a trail of mud and oil at least all the way back to the top of the road. See?’ I indicated a set of thick, wide-treaded tyre tracks printed in clods of earth and clay, leading to and from the Mondeo and punctuated by a circular swirl on the tarmac at the entrance to the picnic site. ‘Someone carried it here on a tractor, right? Frontloader, teleporter, whatever you want to call it.’
Kevin nodded. ‘Which was thoughtful of them.’
‘Ha. So who, and why now? It’s been two months.’
He thought about it for a moment. Scratched his head. ‘Is there anything significant about the date?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
I knew where he was going to go before he went there. ‘Well, if we were in a film, I’d say The perp is sending us a message, but . . . we’re not, are we?’
‘Well, you might be,’ I conceded, ‘but whoever dumped this here isn’t. We’ve got a convenient trail of breadcrumbs, but it’s just muddy tyre marks and you can’t really engineer those. If they lead all the way to the burn site, it’s an accident. Also, never say “perp” again. You sound like an idiot.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It’s a pretty thin theory, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of.’
‘So what am I going to find when I leave you here to chase around after Sandra and go follow that trail by myself?’
‘Oh, come on!’
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Graeme Cameron
‘Utterly compulsive’ Fiona CumminsFIVE MISSING. THE HUNT IS ON FOR NUMBER SIX.THE SERIAL KILLERWith five girls already missing and two dead police officers to add to the body count, the hunt is on. But how do you catch a man who doesn’t exist?THE VICTIMHeld captive for months, Erica Shaw has now vanished. In the race to find her, the police uncover evidence that leave them wondering, was she ever actually a victim?THE DETECTIVEThis isn’t DS Ali Green’s first murder case. But only recently recovered from her near-fatal injuries and battling some personal demons of her own, she’s out for justice.One thing’s for sure. Not everyone is going to make it out of this alive.
Praise for Graeme Cameron (#ulink_17d4e51f-1ff2-5058-95b2-3385bbb3932e)
‘If you loved Graeme Cameron’s Normal, you’d better hold on tight, because his exceptional follow-up hits it out of the park. Shot through with dry humour and darkness, and starring a female detective who will blow your mind, Dead Girls is an utterly compulsive read’
Fiona Cummins
‘Deeply creepy and very clever story’
Heat
‘An utterly compelling crime novel with an unforgettable heroine. I hope this is only the start of Ali’s story’
Elly Griffiths
‘Hypnotic and chilling – you won’t forget this in a hurry’
Lee Child
‘Blackly humorous …. Normal marks Cameron out as one to watch’
Daily Express
‘Original and gripping’
Clare Mackintosh
‘I didn’t like Normal. I loved it’
Michael Robotham
Copyright (#ulink_0123d1b9-7070-5052-a8ad-56831924aff2)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Graeme Cameron 2018
Graeme Cameron asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9781474046688
For Helen Cadbury, the best and bravest
and
For Derek
Contents
Cover (#u83e9a7fa-ebbe-52a3-aaef-3f1b5cfd68b4)
Praise (#ulink_c745cca6-5b06-5dde-b248-b2a900fcf265)
Title Page (#u393eecc2-e0eb-5343-8773-bb2c81d17b42)
Copyright (#ulink_d3f54ff0-7f07-5e26-ac01-7dfadd490463)
Dedication (#uc8950895-1965-5808-bf6b-0930e5852ce3)
Episode 1 (#ulink_86c29f89-9ce2-5eef-9e46-d397178dabba)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_ca91fd81-016c-5431-9817-e042766ee8d3)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_6fcfa4c5-3521-5a03-9405-64970ded7faa)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_65c6bc2f-16a8-5a72-baac-39c1a52e8f0a)
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Episode 2
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Meanwhile . . .
Episode 3
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Episode 4
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Episode 5
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Episode 6
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
Extract (#u901c0a2f-65f2-56d9-9a5b-312325a00c24)
About the Publisher
‘Something’s wrong.’
Detective Sergeant Eli Diaz, formerly of Thetford CID, latterly seconded to the Major Investigation Team at Police Headquarters, and until today engaged in the search for a number of young women missing from across the county, took a moment to consider the redundancy of his statement.
He was standing at the foot of a metal-framed single bed, bolted into the ground through the black rubber floor. The bed was in a steel mesh cage some twenty feet across, the cage in a basement, the basement concealed beneath a garage, the garage nestled beside a stone cottage in a twenty-acre clearing in the forest.
It belonged to a man largely suspected, at least until that moment, of harbouring Erica Shaw, formerly a missing young woman, latterly upgraded to the status of fugitive, and last seen in front of the garage an hour ago, shooting one person dead and attempting to kill two of Eli’s fellow detectives before effecting her escape.
And now one of those detectives, Sergeant Ali Green, formerly of Norwich CID, latterly of the aforementioned Major Investigation Team, and currently somewhere up there alone with that man, was not answering her phone.
Diaz snatched up his own phone from the floor where he’d thrown it and made for the door of the cage, throwing an afterthought of a wave at a constable who was about to feel very alone and decidedly uneasy. ‘Keep trying to call her,’ he barked.
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the splintering pain in his skull from misjudging the height of the false cupboard as he burst through into the garage.
‘Green,’ he snapped, seizing on the first pair of eyes to meet his own; one of the DCs from Norwich Road, he thought. Winters or Winterbourne or something. ‘Have you seen Ali Green?’
A shrug. A confused shake of the head. A voice from somewhere behind him: ‘She’s with the owner. They were heading to the house.’
‘Fuck.’ Less a word than a grunt, choked by panic. Diaz bolted from the garage into chaos and driving rain, shouldering aside the crime scene techs struggling to erect a white tent over the body on the drive, forgetting his breathing, legs out of sync, staggering at full tilt toward the house, nothing like the machine he imagined himself on his morning run, as though the absence of lycra and trainers and a Fitbit reduced him to a gangly, stumbling foal.
He knew before he got there that he was out of control and wasn’t going to stop, that if the door didn’t break when he hit it, then this was going to hurt.
It was ajar. He wasn’t expecting that. It cannoned back on its hinges, barely slowing his progress, and his feet found a bundle of coats and an overturned hat stand and then he was sliding on his face across the hallway, breath punched out of his lungs, skin peeling from his nose and elbows and knees.
He didn’t notice the pain. Fear had him on his feet and pushing off from the wall that had further dented his head and he whirled around from door to door, from kitchen to stairs to living room.
He stopped dead still and held his breath; strained his ears over the roar of the rain and the chatter of radios and uniforms and diesel engines.
Silence.
He gambled on the kitchen, sliding to the edge of the door frame and peering inside. Empty. Chair upturned. A slippery crimson mess on the splintered oak floor. His stomach flipped and he tasted bile in his throat. Christ no, what did he do to her?
Opposite the kitchen, the living room. The door open. A sense of something inside. A sofa. A spray of dark hair. Stillness.
Diaz panted three painful breaths and, with one eye on the top of the stairs, edged to the door, darting his head just far enough inside to get a snapshot of the room.
Empty, except for her.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. His back to the hallway. His ears wide open. ‘Green?’
No reply.
‘Ali?’ he snapped, loud enough to startle himself.
Nothing.
He blew out the adrenaline from his lungs. Checked the stairs again. Winced at the pain in his head. Squeezed his fingers into his palms and nodded some kind of vain self-encouragement. Then he said, ‘It’s okay, I’m here,’ and stepped inside the room.
It was cold. Cold, and still, and quiet. The television was on, but it wasn’t regular programming, it was something else, and Diaz knew what from a single glance. It was a high-definition feed from inside the cage, where the constable he’d just left behind was still poking at his phone, presumably searching for a number he didn’t have.
It was dark, too. The curtains were drawn across both of the windows, one to the front and one to the side, and the lamps were off and the fire unlit and everything was shadow; the hulking bookcases overstuffed with books and trinkets and paperwork, the corner tables with their strange disfigurines, the long, low couch and the wingback chairs and the coffee table with the two full mugs and the solitary mobile phone – everything but the TV screen and the dome of light that it cast, unflickering but dancing with particles of dust, and reflected as two tiny pinpricks of silver in Ali Green’s eyes.
They were open, but vague, unfocused. Her legs had fallen open and her hands lay at her sides, fingers curled into her upturned palms, and her hair was splayed roughly over the back of the sofa where she’d slumped down in her seat. Her mouth was open and as Diaz knelt, cursing, between her knees, he could see the pool of saliva around her tongue and hear it bubbling in her throat as she took each shallow, unsteady breath.
‘Ali,’ he whispered, suddenly painfully aware of the silence and the need to preserve it, to hear whatever small sound she might make, should it be her last. ‘Can you hear me?’ He placed a hand on her arm and could feel a trembling that he couldn’t see, a vibration almost, from deep inside her somewhere, but she didn’t respond, didn’t so much as blink.
He leaned in closer then, moved to put his lips to her ear, but the blood stopped him. A thin trail, trickling through the neat channel between her ear – such delicate ears, he noted, and pointed sweetly at the top, like pixie ears – and the back of her jaw, and down the side of her neck and onto the collar of her shirt, to bloom inside her jacket.
He painfully swallowed his breath and rocked back on his haunches and pulled out his phone from his pocket and said, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, Ali, you’re going to be okay,’ as calmly as he could, as though he believed it. And he punched in the code to unlock the phone, and keyed in the number to summon help, and he looked up into her eyes and was startled to see that she was looking right back at him in piercing focus, and her lips were moving as though she were trying to speak, and he let the phone drift away from his ear as he nodded and said, ‘You’re okay,’ and placed a comforting hand on her knee.
‘B—’ she whispered. ‘B—’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, shaking his head and nodding at the same time and hearing the voice on the other end of the phone and shushing and telling her, ‘Help’s coming. Just relax, you’ll be okay. We’re going to find him.’
And he raised the phone back to his ear, and the voice on the phone said, ‘Sarge?’ and Ali Green said, ‘Beh—’ and a single tear rolled down her cheek, and his breath caught in his throat and in the second before she closed her eyes, one of the tiny spots of silver turned black.
And all he could think of to say was, ‘He’s behind me, isn’t he.’
EPISODE 1 (#ulink_9fa0129f-0c32-5086-8741-97cf0ee595ea)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_2ede4027-6837-556a-9e98-d03242ba9a34)
Two months later
It’s funny, isn’t it, how your mind can always find a way to surprise you? Take mine, for example. After thirty-four years together, I like to think I know it pretty well. And having spent the whole of my childhood being forcibly drummed into myself, and most of my adult life breaking my back to conform to it, God knows I should. And yet, here I was with an unexpected dilemma.
I could hear my phone ringing over the splashing and thumping coming from the bathroom, and I knew that at six in the morning the call was likely important enough that I should answer it. But I didn’t know where I’d left it, and that was a problem.
Normally, like anyone else, I’d crawl out of bed, take a moment to steady myself and for my head to stop spinning, and I’d assume I’d left it in my bag and that my bag was in the lounge, and I’d go find it. And if it wasn’t there and had stopped ringing, I’d call it from the house phone and sooner or later I’d track it down and return the call and receive some bad news and then drink a gallon of coffee in the vain hope that it might make me somewhat safe to drive, and I’d get dressed in a hurry and be on my way.
But I couldn’t do that, not this morning. For one thing, unlike most mornings, I was completely naked under the duvet, and the one eye I could open was so blurry and achey that I couldn’t see any of my clothes. Which, given the mortifying likelihood of bumping into whoever was about to jump out of the shower, meant wrapping myself in a king-size quilt and stumbling around trying to figure out the layout of this house, which, I dimly realised, wasn’t mine.
And now the ringing had stopped, and the light shafting through the thin blind was a dagger to my skull, and then the shower was abruptly silent and my heart began to thump against my ribs and all I could think to do was pull the covers over my head and pretend I didn’t exist.
I don’t know how long I waited. I heard footsteps on the landing, the creaking of stairs; assorted kitchen clangs and clunks and tinkles. My phone again. Damn it. And then the footsteps coming back up the stairs, and the ringing getting louder, and oh God, it was coming into the room.
‘Hmm.’
I froze.
‘Well I’m sure she was in here a few minutes ago.’ A woman’s voice, faintly familiar. ‘Where on earth could she be?’
Dazed now, utterly confused. The phone still ringing. A clunk above my head – a mug on the table? A weight beside me, the edge of the bed sagging beneath it, pulling me towards it.
‘Are you alive under there?’
I took three breaths, and nodded.
‘Are you nodding?’
I shook my head, and heard a giggle.
‘There’s coffee here. And your phone’s ringing.’
‘I know,’ I croaked. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll just leave it here for you. Are you hungry?’
I wasn’t sure. Horror kind of feels like hunger, right? ‘Probably.’
‘Bathroom’s free,’ she said, and patted my hip through the duvet. ‘I’ll let you answer that.’ Then she stood up and was gone.
I unscrewed my eyes and eased the duvet aside. Blinked the blinding light out of them. There was a plain green mug steaming on the bedside table, face cream and biscuits and tissues and a library book shoved aside to make room. And on the floor beside the bed, my bag, jangling incessantly.
I reached down, hissing away a twinge in my back, and dug out my phone. I begged it to stop ringing, but someone was unshakeably determined to speak to me. Kevin, as it turned out. I answered. ‘Kevin,’ I sighed.
‘Ali,’ said Kevin, ‘it’s Kevin.’ Which I knew. ‘Where are you?’
I have no fucking idea. ‘What do you mean, where am I? I’m in bed. It’s fuck-off o’clock in the morning. What do you want?’
‘It’s six eighteen,’ he said, ‘the sun’s been up for over an hour and you need to be here twenty minutes ago.’
From the gentle mooing in the background, I deduced that he was most likely overdramatising. ‘I can hear cows,’ I yawned, and peeked inside the little drawer of the bedside table. It was full of hair ties and old sweets, pastel-coloured biros and Blu Tack and various kinds of charger.
‘I’m standing in a field.’
‘Sounds thrilling,’ I said, ‘but you’ve got the wrong Monday. I’m not back until next week.’ I picked up the library book; The Good Girl, it was called. I cringed.
‘Not any more.’
‘I think you’ll find I am,’ I laughed. Laughing made my forehead throb. My mouth tasted like a badger’s arse. ‘I only saw Occy Health on Friday. I’m still off sick, I’m in bed, I’ve got another headache which you’ve just given me, I’ve got a million and one things to do today, none of which involve farm animals, I’m desperate for a wee, and unless the next thing you say to me is “I’m sorry, Ali, pret—” no, “Sarge. I’m sorry, Sarge, pretend I never rang, take care of yourself, have a good weekend,” I swear to God I’m going to hunt you down and beat you savagely about the face and neck. In a week.’ She was using her library card as a bookmark. It said Edith Macfarlane on it. Christ on a bike, I knew her.
‘I am sorry,’ he sniggered as my heart sank further into my bottom. ‘DCI says otherwise. I thought you’d had a call already, but I guess I’m not surprised. Whatever, this one’s kind of got your name on it.’ He waited for what seemed like days for me to ask him what he meant, but it was quite obviously nothing I wanted to hear, so I didn’t. Also, I was holding my breath in an effort not to wet the bed. Finally, he said, ‘We’ve found John Fairey.’
And I exhaled.
The bathroom was still warm, the window and the mirror still steamed over from Edith’s tenure. The dregs of her bathwater lingered in the bottom of the tub, sending my feet aslither as I cranked open the shower. I braced myself against the tile, gritted my teeth through the cycle of polar-cold and scar-hot until the water settled on a comfortable shade of warm. I scrubbed myself with Edith’s soap until the knot of panic began to unravel. Lathered with Edith’s shampoo. I rinsed the strands of Edith’s hair from my fingers as they attracted to me from Edith’s conditioner bottle. I would have used Edith’s facial scrub, but there was only a small squeeze left in the tube. Instead, barely five minutes after I got in, I shut off the water and, in spite of it still being damp, dried myself with Edith’s towel.
Thankfully, I did have my own clothes, although they were crumpled and smelled of pub and my knickers were a bit the worse for wear. Hearing Edith still downstairs, I eased open the top drawer of her dresser, avoiding my own eye contact in the mirror as I rooted around in the tangle of loosely balled briefs at the back, behind all the neatly folded silky arrangements. I tugged a pair free and shook them out. Hello Kitty. Fine, whatever.
Everything else would have to do. My bra was on its third outing, the cropped black denims maybe their sixth. I had a bright yellow off-the-shoulder top that was okay under the arms but reeked of booze and perfume everywhere else, although deodorant and fresh air would sort that, probably. And I had at least had the accidental foresight to wear shoes I could run in, inclined as I was to duck my head and sprint straight out the door.
But to where?
I gingerly opened the blind, shielding my eyes with my spare hand and squinting through my fingers at the view. There wasn’t much of one; just a row of boxy houses on the other side of the street, driveways lined with German and Swedish cars in various shades of black and grey, including the one directly below the window. Mine is bright red, so it was immediately apparent that it wasn’t there. God, where the hell was it? And, more to the point, where the hell was I?
Edith was easier to locate. She was at the breakfast table, and she greeted me with a ‘Hey’ and a smile. Nothing between the lines; just your usual good-morning pleasantry. She’d clearly been listening out for me; she’d poured me a fresh cup of coffee and a bowl of Rice Krispies and the latter were still popping and cracking, or whatever it is they do. ‘Made you breakfast.’
I sat across from her, silently giving thanks for my complexion; the Middle-Eastern half of me is all on the outside, so I don’t burn in the sun and, more importantly, I blush very, very quietly. ‘Morning,’ I said, my deliberate effort to keep a steady voice naturally achieving the opposite. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sleep well?’
My insides recoiled in horror. Was it a trick question? Could she tell that I had no recollection of the night before? ‘Like a baby,’ I said. ‘You?’
Another neutral smile. ‘As well as can be expected. Did you find your towel?’
Oh. ‘Yes,’ I lied, giving it away by shaking my head at the same time. ‘Thank you.’
I watched her read the Independent as I crunched a mouthful of cereal, wishing there was a radio or television to muffle the sound of my munching. Her own efforts seemed so much more refined than mine.
She’d finished dressing; a black tailored five-button jacket with matching skirt to just below the knee. Her legs stretched beneath the table, her ankles – slender, lightly tanned – crossed comfortably beside my own. Chestnut hair lowlighted in black, thrown up into a loose ponytail. Sunlight, splayed and rainbowed by the flowers and antique bottles on the windowsill, playing on the triangles of her neck, settling in the hollow of her collarbone where it peeked from behind her shirt. The swell of her breas—
‘You okay?’ See anything you like?
I looked up, startled. Felt my face flush. ‘Hmm?’
She folded the paper and tossed it aside, slid her coffee close to her and spooned in sugar from the bowl in the centre of the table. ‘You don’t look very well,’ she said, circling the spoon handle at me as though casting a spell. ‘You’re not going to throw that back up, are you?’
I realised I had a mouthful of lukewarm milk and soggy Rice Krispies which, somewhere along my train of distraction, I’d somehow forgotten to swallow. I did so now. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, flatly.
She gave a cynical snort. ‘Oh, really?’ Stirred her coffee. ‘I’ve seen you looking fine, and it didn’t look like that.’ Raised it to her lips, blew primly across the surface before taking a sip. ‘You’re not upset with me, are you?’
I dropped my spoon into the half-empty cereal bowl and pushed it away, my appetite lost. ‘Of course not.’ Mortified, yes. Confused, bemused and deeply, shamefully embarrassed, but not upset.
‘Good, because . . . you know . . .’
Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. ‘I know.’
‘I mean, it’s not like . . .’
‘No, I know.’
‘I mean, I had a great time last night, but—’
I choked on my coffee. ‘But now I have to go to work,’ I smiled.
She smiled back, and thought for a moment and then looked at the table and nodded firmly and said, ‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘Only I don’t know where my car is.’
‘Ah,’ she chuckled. ‘You left it at the pub, remember?’
No.
‘I’ll drop you off,’ she said. ‘Ready in five?’
I nodded. I didn’t know what else to say, really, so I just blurted out, ‘I borrowed some knickers. Hope you don’t mind.’
She gave a snort and a sideways look. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she laughed. ‘Just . . . have a good day, okay? Be careful, and don’t work too hard.’
‘Oh, I don’t intend to,’ I laughed. Riding out on a shudder of relief at the rapid change of subject, it was a laugh I would have found disproportionate and vaguely chilling were it directed at me. Fortunately, Edith either didn’t notice or at least had the good grace not to raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m . . .’ trying to think of something to say . . . ‘planning on shouting at my boss for dragging me out, and being home in time for Cash in the Attic.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ she agreed, and then giggled to herself. ‘Hey, you know what’d be even better?’
‘What?’
‘Tango & Cash in the Attic.’
Ha ha.
I knew I’d be fixed by lunchtime. The cold light of day would see my head straight and my priorities in order in no time. Or at least that was what I thought.
As it turned out, the light of day was already as hot as the belly of Hell when I stepped from my car onto flame-scorched sand, hung my badge from its lanyard around my neck, and entered a world of violence and horror for the likes of which even the most depraved of my many nightmares had left me woefully underprepared.
It was 6.59 a.m. My name is Alisha Green, and this, to the best of my understanding, is the truth about Erica Shaw.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_2eb2ebaa-b0ed-5583-b4eb-ad2cfac03ad5)
A squirrel darted a stuttering dash along the bough above my head, twitching its velvety grey nose at the edges of the shadows among the leaves and sniffing suspiciously at the encroaching sunlight. In the dense cover high above, a lone woodpigeon flexed its wings and fluttered the sleep from its rumpled feathers. He looked like he’d had a rough night.
I looked worse, if my reflection in the car window was anything to go by. I’d had them both open all the way here, and my undried hair had frizzed up into a bouffant bird’s nest. I slipped the hairband from my wrist and bundled the mess into a rough, damp knot at the base of my neck. If it didn’t improve me, it might at least give the pigeon second thoughts about moving in.
I propped my foot on the sun-bleached picnic trestle beside the car and bent to tighten my shoelace. A pair of wasps buzzed hungrily around the rubbish bin beside me, keeping a respectful distance from one another as they took turns to dive inside for a bite. A third investigated the sticky rim of a Coke can, idly dropped in the grass not three feet away, the silvered peaks of its crushed carcass shimmering thousands of tiny jewels of light across the fixed-penalty warning notice plastered to the receptacle. No Littering. Maximum fine£2,500. The futility of mandatory environmental correctness, summed up in a shiny red aluminium nutshell. I picked up the can and disposed of it properly. The wasp didn’t flinch.
This, right here, is the kind of peace I crave: the earlymorning sun prickling my upturned face; the idle lapping of the river against the pebbles on the bank; the soft quirrup of ducklings perpetually distracted from the arduous task of keeping up with mum; the merest whisper of distant traffic, just there enough to temper the isolation without intruding on the blissful, cossetting quiet of—
‘Oi! Pocahontas! Over here!’
Oh. Right. Kevin.
I took in a lingering lungful of cowshit and pollen.
Geoff Green – no relation – greeted me with an indifferent nod as I slipped between my Alfa and the adjacent patrol car. I’d seen the burly constable around often enough to know his name, but his snakelike eyes and disdainful demeanour had always deterred me from wanting to know much more about him. Whether he perpetually wished he were somewhere else, or simply didn’t like the look of me any more than I did him, I couldn’t entirely tell. Nor did I particularly care.
Geoff had been left in charge of guarding the inner perimeter. It was clearly a hurried affair, the blue-and-white warning tape sagging between posts speared skew-wiff and at random intervals into the sandy earth as it bisected the picnic site. It also seemed a somewhat extraneous measure, given that the access road was barricaded by patrol cars at its inception half a mile back, the car park entrance was itself taped and guarded, and a fourth cordon encircled what seemed to be the object of the collective attention – a burned-out car slumped at the far side of the clearing.
If I’d known him better, I might have accused Geoff of erecting the barrier himself, just to look as though he had something important to do. However, half a dozen years having passed between us without the need for small talk, and with neither of us any more inclined than the other to fix what wasn’t broken, I kept my suspicions to myself and simply returned Geoff’s sulky nod as I ducked under the tape, which he lifted just high enough to garrotte me had I not been half-expecting it.
At the other end of the mood swing, and entirely at odds with his tone on the phone, Kevin McManus was a veritable grin on a stick. He picked through a maze of yellow plastic markers and staked-off squares of sand, sterile suit rustling, teeth flashing, arms wide like he thought he was going to get a hug. ‘You know, for a minute I thought you might blow me out,’ he crowed, his voice sounding hollow and windswept against the squawk and chatter of radios and crime scene techs and the rattle and hum of a diesel generator.
‘Save it,’ I warned him. ‘You’re at the top of my shitlist today.’
‘Well, aren’t we the little ray of sunshine?’ In defiance of the mechanics of the human face, and presumably working on the assumption that I was joking, he broadened his smile to within a whisker of obscuring his own vision. ‘Listen, don’t go shooting the messenger, okay? You know I wouldn’t kick you out of bed without—’
I choked on my own spit.
‘I mean. . . You know, drag you out of—’
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
Oh, Jesus Christ, Kevin. ‘Anyone you like. Take your time, I’ve got all day.’
‘John,’ he remembered, with none of the exaggerated embarrassment you or I might affect when caught with our wits down. Instead, he ran a hand through his dark, wiry mop and scratched at the short patch over his crown, a remnant of a recent pistol-whipping. ‘He’s, um . . . in the car,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, it’s . . .’ He glanced over his shoulder at the remains of the car and just sort of sighed.
‘What about DC Keith? Any sign?’ John Fairey hadn’t been alone when he’d seemingly vanished into thin air; there was no trace of the freshly minted detective he’d snagged for a dogsbody, either.
Kevin gave me a shrug and a sympathetic smile. ‘I’ll get you a suit,’ he said.
‘Where’s Mal?’
‘The what?’ Kevin dropped a fetching pair of white rubber boots at my feet and handed me the paper jumpsuit he’d retrieved from the back of the nearby CSI van. He’d tried to flirt with Sandra, the duty pathologist, but she was on the phone and had batted him away with an irritable glare. His smile had faded rapidly.
‘Mal,’ I repeated. ‘Mal Lowry. He should be here.’
Kevin narrowed his eyes and nodded with a look that said No shit, Sherlock. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ve all got personal problems, right?’
I didn’t know what he meant by that; I just knew it didn’t explain where my DCI was. I flattened the suit out on the ground and slipped my feet into the leg holes. ‘You know what else I can’t see?’ I pulled it up to my waist and realised I had it back to front.
‘What?’
‘Any bodies in that car. Where are they?’ Did I turn the suit once or twice? It now appeared to be upside down.
‘I was getting to that.’ Kevin eyed the jumpsuit curiously as I attempted vainly to pass it behind my back without reversing it. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Could you?’ I don’t know how many of these godforsaken things I’ve had to clamber into over the course of my career, but it’s one of those tasks – most of which, come to think of it, seem to involve items of apparel – for which practice will never make perfect. I will never be able tie an apron behind my back, and I will never be able to get into a front-fastening one-piece paper jumpsuit without the assistance of a third party. Fact of life.
‘Don’t worry about Lowry,’ he said, which seemed strange, because I wasn’t. ‘Just enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.’ He turned me around by the shoulders, scrunched the suit up in his hands and squatted behind me, tapping each of my legs in turn as he wanted them lifted and lowered. ‘’Scuse fingers.’
‘Keep them below the knee,’ I laughed. ‘Geoff’s watching.’
The constable looked casually away as Kevin yanked the suit up over my hips and said, ‘I think he’s got the hots for you, you know.’
I stifled a chuckle. ‘Well, he all but pulls my hair every time he sees me,’ I said.
‘Boys are always mean to girls they like,’ he agreed, standing to guide my arms into the appropriate holes and slide the shoulders of the suit up onto my own. ‘You can manage the zip on your own, right?’
I gave him a withering look and said, ‘Ha bloody ha. Who called us?’ as I fumbled hopelessly with the zip and Kevin pretended not to notice the trembling in my fingers.
‘The usual,’ he said, handing me a full-face particulate mask. ‘Dog walker. Said his dog wouldn’t stop barking at it, so he took a peek. Watches a lot of true crime shows.’
‘Him or the dog?’
‘Not sure.’
‘What time?’
‘Five thirty-five.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I sent him home. He’ll come in this afternoon if we need him to.’
‘You talked to him yourself?’
‘Yep.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Genuine.’
I nodded and snapped the mask over my head and Kevin did the same. ‘Ogay,’ I said, waving to Sandra and getting a thumbs-up in return. ‘Ned dayg a nook.’
There was no denying it was my old partner’s Mondeo. I’d spent a lot of hours staring pointedly out of the window of that car, or gripping the sides of my seat, or instinctively thumping my right foot onto an imaginary brake pedal. I was in it when he creased the wheel arch against a bollard, and I was standing right where I was now when he kicked the dent into the front wing in anger at some humiliation or other. My seat was gone, just a buckled metal frame remaining. The worn carpet in the footwell was gone, too – in fact everything was gone; it was just a ravaged shell. But those dents were as good as a fingerprint.
It wasn’t blue any more. It was orange and black and brown, rust and soot and death. It sat sadly on its sills in the sand, one back door hanging limp on twisted hinges. The roof sagged from front to back, the tailgate bent on its frame so that the lid reared up, arched like a mouth shrieking in horror. And in that mouth was what I could only assume were the remains of my two former colleagues.
Bone is bone. It doesn’t really look like anything else. I suppose I could have convinced myself it was coral, or pebbles at a push, but I didn’t bother to try. It was a grey rubble of bone, fragmented, cemented with splatters of rain-pasted ash. To my untrained eye it could have been anyone, or anything. Sure, I know all the words; I read the same books you read. Skull sutures. Pubic symphysis. Phalanges, which just reminds me of Phoebe from Friends. I could even tell you what they mean, and relate the most reliable method of estimating the height of a person from their skeleton, or of determining the gender and racial profile of a skull. But I’m no more than an armchair expert; my opinion isn’t worth the calories I’d expend merely forming it, and the jigsaw puzzle in front of me now was far beyond my understanding of how a person could even begin to make sense of it. And so, knowing in my gut that this was the final resting place of Detective Inspector John Fairey and Detective Constable Julian Keith, I resisted the urge to plunge my hand into the ashes, pull out a shard of calcined something-or-other and shout ‘Aha’, and I walked away from the car.
‘Okay, first screamingly obvious things first,’ I said, once I’d flicked the mask off my face and could breathe again. I pointed at the square of blackened grass beneath my feet; one of a dozen I could see, evidence of a summer of careless barbecuing. ‘There are burn marks just about everywhere except under the car. Who’s out looking for the crime scene?’
Kevin looked from me to the car and back again, and scratched the back of his head. ‘Not organised that yet,’ he said, which I had to concede was an accurate if inexhaustive statement. ‘Been a little bit busy on my own here. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet.’
Signed off till Monday. Not going to feel guilty for having breakfast. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ I said, although I knew Sandra had probably beaten him here and taken control of the scene herself. ‘We haven’t got the whole car here. The bumpers, the tyres, all of the plastic and rubber bits that have melted off. They’re not here. We’re missing a debris field. Plus there are no drag marks, but there’s a trail of mud and oil at least all the way back to the top of the road. See?’ I indicated a set of thick, wide-treaded tyre tracks printed in clods of earth and clay, leading to and from the Mondeo and punctuated by a circular swirl on the tarmac at the entrance to the picnic site. ‘Someone carried it here on a tractor, right? Frontloader, teleporter, whatever you want to call it.’
Kevin nodded. ‘Which was thoughtful of them.’
‘Ha. So who, and why now? It’s been two months.’
He thought about it for a moment. Scratched his head. ‘Is there anything significant about the date?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
I knew where he was going to go before he went there. ‘Well, if we were in a film, I’d say The perp is sending us a message, but . . . we’re not, are we?’
‘Well, you might be,’ I conceded, ‘but whoever dumped this here isn’t. We’ve got a convenient trail of breadcrumbs, but it’s just muddy tyre marks and you can’t really engineer those. If they lead all the way to the burn site, it’s an accident. Also, never say “perp” again. You sound like an idiot.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It’s a pretty thin theory, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of.’
‘So what am I going to find when I leave you here to chase around after Sandra and go follow that trail by myself?’
‘Oh, come on!’
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Graeme Cameron
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘Utterly compulsive’ Fiona CumminsFIVE MISSING. THE HUNT IS ON FOR NUMBER SIX.THE SERIAL KILLERWith five girls already missing and two dead police officers to add to the body count, the hunt is on. But how do you catch a man who doesn’t exist?THE VICTIMHeld captive for months, Erica Shaw has now vanished. In the race to find her, the police uncover evidence that leave them wondering, was she ever actually a victim?THE DETECTIVEThis isn’t DS Ali Green’s first murder case. But only recently recovered from her near-fatal injuries and battling some personal demons of her own, she’s out for justice.One thing’s for sure. Not everyone is going to make it out of this alive.