A body has been found in a frozen lake, bringing a gruesome act of evil into the light.

One look at the victim is enough for DCI Claire Winters to recognise the work of a warped mind. And when another woman is reported missing, Claire’s worst fears are confirmed: this is a killer who plans to strike again.

As the body count rises, the pressure is on for DCI Claire Winters to find the perpetrator and bring them to justice. But first, she must learn to understand the twisted mind behind the crimes. And that will take her to a darker place than she ever thought possible.

Loved DCI Helen Grace and DI Kim Stone? Don’t miss the second book in the addictive new DCI Claire Winters series.

Also by T. M. E. Walsh

For All Our Sins

The Principle of Evil

T. M. E. Walsh

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © T. M. E. Walsh 2016

T. M. E. Walsh 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.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046541

Version date: 2018-09-20

TANIA (T. M. E.) WALSH began writing full time after becoming a casualty to the recession in late 2008. She successfully self-published the first two novels in the DCI Claire Winters series in 2013, and both appeared in the various best-selling Amazon Kindle charts before being picked up by HQ Digital in 2015. In 2011 Tania was the winner of the Wannabe a Writer competition sponsored by Writing Magazine and judged by Matt Bates, the Fiction buyer for WHSmith Travel.

Although writing now takes up most of her time, Tania has previously produced digital artwork that was published on a DVD-ROM for ImagineFX magazine’s FXPosé section twice in the early and latter part of 2007, which has been published worldwide. Tania is currently working on a new standalone novel and a third book in the DCI Claire Winters series. She lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and young daughter. You can follow her at tmewalsh.com, facebook.com/tmewalsh or @tmewalsh.

Thank you to the dedicated team at HQ Digital. Special thanks to Anna for designing my fantastic book covers. You’ve captured the tone of the DCI Winters series perfectly. To my editor, Clio Cornish, thank you for your continued support for the series. Your advice and input on this novel has been invaluable.

Further thanks to my husband Daniel, for everything you do that allows me to write full time.

Special thanks to Willow Thomas. You’ve been there since the ‘early days’. I will always be eternally grateful to you.

For my parents, Sandra and Stewart.

Also in loving memory of Angela Walsh – truly the luck of the Irish, who would’ve got such a kick out of this.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part 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

Part Three

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Part Four

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

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

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Part Five

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

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

‘He got inside my head. He twisted it, danced around in it, leaving nothing behind but bad memories and bloody footprints.’

31st October

She tasted the earth, the dead leaves and the damp as she crawled on her belly.

The bitter wind rose. It raged through the trees like something possessed, scattering the last remaining dead leaves that had once clung to the skeletal branches. Shivering uncontrollably, she pressed her body harder to the ground, willing it to open and swallow her whole.

Don’t let him see me from here.

Was she hoping or praying? She didn’t know any more.

God hadn’t been with her when she needed Him the most, not for a long time. Not since the accident. Nothing had come to ease her grief then and nothing would come now. Why wait for some divine intervention to carry her from this wretched place? She could only rely on herself, and look where that had got her. There wasn’t any hope of escape. Not now. The gash on her ankle had seen to that. Nothing left now except the time before he killed her.

He’d desecrate her body, but not her soul. A soul that had already been ripped to shreds and lain broken, slowly dying a piece at a time since the day of the accident. The day her life broke down into nothing meaningful, just something wretched, languishing in self-pity.

The man who was tracking her would be following the trail of blood, seeping from the wound on her ankle. For all she knew, he could be standing right behind her now, watching in silence, waiting to strike the final blow. The great calm before the storm.

Her bruised ribs prevented her from rolling on her back. She sucked in a deep breath against the dank earth, soil creeping inside her mouth, between parched lips. She dug her fingers in deep, nails raking through the mud.

She pulled.

Just a little further towards the bushes. I can make it. I have to. Ignore the pain.

Then she heard it. She froze with the fright and the possibility that death was coming even sooner than imagined. She wondered if it was delirium or if the noise close behind her was as real as the hot tears falling down her face.

No, the sound of crushing twigs was much closer now. It was as real as the heat of his breath now upon her neck.

He appeared almost from nowhere, creeping through the oily blackness.

He was determined.

He would kill her.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, gooseflesh puckering her skin. There was a moment there in the darkness when she thought he might speak to her. She heard his sharp intake of breath… but nothing more. She hadn’t the courage to look into his cold dark eyes again. The weight of his boot pressed down on her neck, burying her face deeper into the soil.

Sweet Jesus, just let this be over quickly.

He stooped down close, replaced his boot with an icy hand. She braced herself. Her eyes squeezed shut when she felt the sharp tip of the blade, the cold edge of steel.

She felt no pain at first, just a forceful punch to the neck.

Then came the pain.

She felt her warm blood pouring down her neck, onto the ground, drenching the earth. Then the rain came. Icy fat droplets, pattering over her bare skin.

As her mind took her beyond the pain, spiriting her away high above the violence below, the last thoughts that ran through her head were of her husband and their two children.

She could see them clearly, as alive now as they had been a year ago. They were playing in the cornfield behind the house where she had grown up. A year without them had felt like an eternity, but she knew they had always been with her and would be until the very end.

Isabelle and Jasmine, my beautiful girls. And Anthony. I’ve missed you all so much. I’m coming back to you.

The vision of her husband blurred with reality but she was sure he was walking towards her, hands reaching out, lips greeting her with a smile. Her fingers splayed and ached for the touch of his skin, just as the darkness carried her away.

PART ONE

Present Day

5th November

‘Don’t run… don’t run from me.’

There, deep in the wood, she hears the voice again. The same voice that had haunted her, followed her desperately. Relentlessly for months.

‘Don’t run, wait for me. I can offer you so much more if you’d only let me.’

But she cannot stop. She cannot learn to walk through this world again, not while the fear has a hold of her body, heart and soul.

She runs down the track through the trees. She cannot place the voice, nor tell if it’s male or female. It rings like a cacophony of sounds in her head.

She risks a glance down at her feet. They are bare once again, deep in the snow. The forest floor beneath the ice scratches at her skin, and she leaves drops of blood in her wake.

She panics.

Someone will follow her home, chasing the scarlet trail left behind. But where is home? She cannot find it. Ahead, there is nothing but forest.

The mist circles the trees around her, the same as every time she sees them.

This world is stripped. Void of colour. Void of time.

Her heart pounds in her chest, but she can never understand who or what she runs from. Inside, the only thing that is always certain, is the fear. It relentlessly courses through her veins.

She sees the clearing ahead. She wants to turn the other way. She has been here time and time before, but never understands why. A force is driving her forward, which she cannot control. She runs as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

She reaches the clearing… stops.

The voice is there, behind her.

She turns; ready to confront whatever it is that hunts her…

It’s Him.

As she feared it would be; a ghost from the past.

She’s almost afraid to look into his eyes, but when she does, she sees there is nothing there but darkness. Hollow pits where brilliant eyes once shone.

He reaches out, and before she can stop him, his hand grabs her hair, ripping clumps out by the roots.

Then fingers are at her chest. They tear through icy flesh, nails scratching against bone, against ribs, hungry for her heart.

As she cries out, his mouth opens in a silent scream, blood pouring out from within.

CHAPTER 1

Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters bolted upright, eyes snapping open.

She was shrouded in darkness and it took her several seconds to realise where she was as her eyes adjusted to her surroundings.

Her head was spinning but soon the shadows stopped moving and became solid shapes, pieces of furniture she soon began to recognise in her living room.

Her hands grabbed at her chest, which was slick with sweat despite the chill of the room. A sigh of relief shuddered through her body when she realised her skin, flesh and bone were still intact.

She pushed back the stray strands of blonde hair from her face, and then held her head in her hands. Night terrors had become part of her, almost feeling as physical as something she wore, but it was no badge of honour.

That one had been one of the worst she’d had in the last year. Usually they followed the same familiar pattern, but with subtle differences.

She sucked in a deep breath, held it until her chest ached.

Despite knowing who it was she ran from by the end of each frantic nightmare, this was the first time she’d actually seen Him – or at least some twisted version of Him.

Her hands slid down her face, wiping back tears that had begun to fall. Ice-blue coloured eyes glassed over as she eventually let the tears fall freely, staining the pale flesh of her cheeks.

A loud bang outside made her jump, bolting off the sofa, stumbling over the blanket that had fallen at her feet. A series of smaller hissing sounds then followed, erupting in a series of loud bangs, and bright lights flashed behind the curtains that she had drawn earlier.

She hugged her arms tightly around her torso and shivered. She wore a rough knit jumper, its coarseness scratching at her skin, with skinny jeans that were slack at the waist and had begun to bag at the knees. She’d lost a stone in weight in the last year, but she refused to buy new clothes.

She was startled by the cracking sound as sparks seemed to dance across the roof of her house, raining down in a night so cold it stole your breath away.

She pulled back the curtain of the nearest window and saw the bright coloured fragments scatter in the sky.

Fireworks had been let off from the house somewhere across the road, at the bottom of the drive.

She released the breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. She caught her reflection in the cold glass. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and what little lines she did have across her forehead had deepened.

She imagined she saw Him beside her, staring at their reflections. His eyes, seen moments before in the nightmare, still black pits.

Hollow.

That summed up how she felt.

She looked at Him, then squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Go away,’ she said. When she opened them again, she felt the fog in her mind begin to clear a little. ‘It’s just a nightmare,’ she said in the darkness.

After several moments passed she went back to the sofa and felt for her phone, her head feeling thick, disorientated. She unlocked the screen and checked the time.

18:36.

She had less than an hour before she was due to be at the annual firework display in Haverbridge. She contemplated not going, and pulled up the last text message she had sent, about to send her excuses.

She flicked on the light, and looked around the room, phone clutched in a sweaty palm. The house looked as it had done a few hours ago when she’d decided to just rest her eyes.

The night terrors took their toll on her. Rarely a week went past without being woken by them. Grabbing a short sleep here and there when she could had been her way of coping with it for many months now.

She knew it couldn’t go on like this, but no way would she ask for help.

This was something she had to overcome on her own… and she would, in her own time.

*

She headed up the stairs and put on clean clothes, dumping the sweat drenched ones in the laundry basket, before heading to the bathroom.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet.

Her skin had taken on a grey tinge of late and her frame appeared gaunt. Others had noticed, made comments. She lowered her eyes, casting a critical eye over her stomach when she lifted her jumper.

For someone who had once taken so much pride in her appearance, even she knew her standards had slipped a little.

She could hear her colleagues’ comments in her head, whispering their concerns when they thought she couldn’t hear them.

The self-pity crept in briefly, before it was pushed aside by the resilience she was known for. Soft, kind eyes became hard once again, a steely glare cast at her reflection in the mirror.

Fuck them, she thought.

She splashed cold water on her cheeks, determined she would leave the house and at least appear to be social.

This is not me, she told herself inwardly. I am in control.

Minutes later she was sitting in her car, engine running, heaters clearing the fog from the windows, tapping out a text.

You twisted my arm. On my way.

She pressed send before she could change her mind, put the phone in her pocket, and headed down the drive, mindful of the ice on the ground that twinkled in the brightness of the headlights.

She headed out of Hexton, and on towards Haverbridge, taking the scenic route, passing another sleepy village before the road cut through open fields.

She sucked in deep breaths when her mind started to clog with the familiar uneasiness of before. When she breathed, she could see the faintness of her breath expelled like puffs of smoke from between parched lips.

She turned the heating up a little more and tried to relax her body. Tight muscles soon began to relax into the seat. She felt the ache in her jaw and realised she’d been clenching her teeth together. She swallowed hard, focusing on the stillness of the country road, where frosty skeletal trees and bushes hugged it from both sides.

This year autumn appeared to have bypassed the UK entirely, and winter seemed to have taken the Hertfordshire town of Haverbridge, where she worked, into its relentless clutches much earlier than anticipated.

The large town had a population just short of 100,000 people and was situated some thirty miles from London. Haverbridge had grown over the years, becoming a commuters’ paradise for those who worked in the capital but didn’t want the bright lights of the colourful city in their backyard at home time. They wanted to say goodnight and really mean it.

Haverbridge was beautiful, yet ugly in so many ways – not dissimilar to other towns and cities up and down the UK – but Haverbridge had a different side to it. It was exceptionally beautiful in the darker months. What made it so striking, you couldn’t easily describe; it just was.

The summer sun had long disappeared and the threat of early snowfall was a very real one.

For Claire, it was bad news. It made her fall easily into an abyss of self-loathing and bitterness, something she was prone to. The cold haunted her like a restless spirit and the chill was not good for her bones.

She glanced at the clock on the dash. She’d be a little late, but she knew Stefan would understand. She took the road leading to the motorway, and as she travelled at a steady 60mph, she looked at the road ahead, bright lights and traffic rushing past, through eyes that didn’t quite feel like her own.

One day earlier

The man glanced around the car park and stifled a yawn as he looked down at his watch. He snuggled down further in the driver’s seat; his thick padded coat was warm and inviting. He was sleepy and wished he could close his eyes.

The body in the boot – it’s now or never.

His car was the only one there, almost hidden in the darkness. The cold air hit his face when he emerged from the car. It caught him unawares and he gasped instinctively, clasping his hands tightly together, rubbing them for warmth.

When he stood in front of the boot, his hand hovered over it as if he had second thoughts about what he was about to do, as if the final act were any worse than what came before it.

The light inside the boot cast a dull light on what was inside. He looked down at the black bin liners, wrapped crudely around the majority of the body. Only the bottom half of the legs were left uncovered.

The once soft skin now looked waxy. He thought back to when those legs had kicked out at him, before he’d secured them together.

Shame, really.

This one had had such spirit.

His hands reached in and grabbed cold limbs. He began to haul the body carefully out onto the frozen ground.

CHAPTER 2

5th November

There was a huge whizz followed by a violent crack in the night sky as the firework exploded high above their heads.

Claire jumped, instinctively closing the gap between herself and Detective Inspector Stefan Fletcher. He glanced down at her, his tall thin frame buried in an oversized padded coat against the cold. He saw her tense, and ease herself a step or two away from his personal space.

He smiled inwardly.

Aloof and sometimes proud, with walls built so high that they could rarely be penetrated. These were Claire’s bad points, but she wore the traits with pride, giving off the impression that nothing could faze her.

Stefan knew different though.

After a high-profile case the previous year, Claire had put Haverbridge back on the map. Not always for the right reasons, but in Claire’s case, any publicity had turned out to be fairly good publicity. She’d become one of Haverbridge CID’s best, and had ridden out the storm, forging some close allies amongst her team, and Stefan was one of those people.

Despite Claire’s misgivings about herself, she was extremely good at her job, and respected. No one would’ve been justified in calling her incompetent, or an easy target.

But Stefan had seen the signs, seen the cracks appear since that investigation. It had exhausted her, changed her forever in some ways.

The murdered priest case – how could anyone come back from that completely unscathed?

More fireworks whizzed skywards, drawing appreciation from the assembled mass around them. Stefan watched Claire from the corner of his eye. Whilst she looked to the heavens with everyone else, he saw the glassy look of her eyes. She was there in body but the mind was elsewhere.

‘The kids would’ve loved this,’ he said, his blue eyes scrutinising every twitch in her face when she heard him speak.

She glanced at him, gave a weak smile.

Stefan would normally take his kids to Haverbridge Lake’s annual firework display, but his ex had changed her plans and he was expected to fall in line. He felt sad at not seeing his children but, surprisingly, he was very glad to have Claire’s company.

In the past, Claire had had a few detective sergeants as her subordinates. Most hadn’t lived up to her expectations but Stefan had been different. Having watched him come into his own, and making DI in recent years, she’d relished the chance to work alongside him permanently, where possible, as an equal, despite the difference in rank.

‘They wouldn’t have liked the cold, Fletch’ she said, at length. ‘The kids I mean.’

Stefan shook his head. ‘Kids are tougher than they look.’

He saw her bite her lip. Claire didn’t have children, or was ever likely to. Sometimes he felt like he was walking on eggshells in the last year. He didn’t know what might upset her, so topics of conversation sometimes felt stilted.

Claire had her vulnerabilities as much as the next person. She had closed the gap between them earlier, something she’d never admit to if he called her out on it.

He’d noticed her weight loss, although he’d never say so. Her face had become more chiseled, cheek bones sharp.

Those ice-blue eyes looked permanently sad.

Stefan pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to draw the life back into them. The night air was bone-chilling and the breath of the eager crowd hung in the air like thick white smoke.

He breathed in deeply; the air was heavy with the smell of bonfire smoke and fast food. He followed the line of people surrounding the huge lake and caught sight of the fast food stands. His stomach growled.

‘Do you want anything to eat?’

Claire was rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth and her breath cast out in clouds around her face. She shook her head.

‘Mind if I?’

Claire either didn’t hear him or was too cold to answer. He shrugged and pushed his way through the crowd.

When he returned, hotdog in hand, Claire saw he looked troubled.

‘What’s wrong?’

Stefan gave half a shrug as he bit into his hotdog. ‘I wanted to talk about DS Crest.’

Claire waved her hand, dismissing the very mention of his name. ‘Not while I’m enjoying myself.’

‘He speaks highly of you too.’

‘Look, I really don’t need this right now.’ Her voice turned hard. ‘I couldn’t care less what that Armani-wearing-metrosexual-walking-cliché thinks of me.’ She turned to face him.

Detective Sergeant Elias Crest was a new addition to her team.

The last man Detective Superintendent Clifton Donahue had placed under Claire’s watchful eye had lasted barely six months. Claire had hoped DS Crest would be different, but they hadn’t exactly hit it off.

Elias had transferred from Merseyside after spending five years in Liverpool South’s CID team. There were official reasons given for the transfer, but the real reason wasn’t quite so clear cut.

Claire knew that more than anyone.

A steeliness had returned to her voice. ‘I take it by you mentioning him, he’s been kicking off?’

‘He’s found a few things out about you from your reputation alone. He thinks you hate him.’

‘He’s close… Hate is such a terrible word. He knows where the door is and it’s open any time, day or night, if he wants to walk…’

Stefan nodded to himself, taking in her words. Then his eyes met hers. He saw the seriousness in her face.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just wanted you to know he’s not happy.’

‘Boo-fucking-hoo.’ Stefan rolled his eyes and she leaned in closer to him. ‘I’m not going to apologise for who I am, Fletch. I have to be hard and when arrogant screw-ups like him are sent my way, they need to learn to toe the line.’

Stefan narrowed his eyes. ‘Screw-ups?’

She fell silent.

‘Is it something to do with why he was transferred? ’Cos you do realise not everybody is buying into the close-to-family excuse.’

She kept her face neutral.

Stefan shrugged. ‘People talk, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘It’s nothing, Fletch, forget I said anything.’ She felt the weight of his stare but avoided his eyes. ‘So,’ she said, trying to deflect attention away from Crest, ‘what happened to that girl you were dating? Doesn’t she like fireworks?’

Stefan grimaced. ‘Leigh couldn’t make it. I think she’s about to chuck me anyway.’

‘Really?’

Stefan gave a mock laugh. ‘Don’t pretend to care.’

‘You’re questioning my sincerity?’

‘Personally, I always thought that divorce of yours left you dead inside.’

She gave half a smile. ‘Touché, Stefan.’

‘Oh, first name for once. I’m flattered. Did I touch a nerve?’

‘Simon didn’t cut it enough as a husband to even come close to touching a nerve, Fletcher.’

Stefan glanced at her. ‘I heard DCI Forester is dating again.’

Claire raised an eyebrow and sniffed with indifference. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’ She knew he was talking in jest and on the surface she grinned, but inside she felt a little sad.

Claire had been married to DCI Simon Forester for three years. He served at Welwyn Garden City police station, some eight miles from Haverbridge. They’d met at a charity ball, and after a brief engagement, they’d married too quickly without really knowing anything about each other.

The relationship had turned sour after the first year and the pressure of their jobs helped drive a wedge between them, and they became more friends than lovers.

When Claire had risked an affair with another man, they became even less than that and it was Claire who filed for divorce, and immediately reverted back to her maiden name.

Surprisingly, despite feeling little for Simon, she felt the twinge of jealousy. It wasn’t as if her love life was flourishing. Her dedication to her job didn’t allow much time for a personal life, but she hated the thought there could be anyone else in her ex’s life. Certainly not someone who could compare to her anyway.

As more fireworks erupted overhead, Claire pushed Stefan towards the edge of the lake, until they stood just feet from the edge of the frozen water.

He shoved the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and grinned. ‘You’re aware you’re supposed to be playing the part of the submissive Leigh, aren’t you?’

‘Submissive? You’re well shot of her, Fletch, by the sounds of it.’

‘When I spend my working days with you, I need dominant like a hole in the head.’

‘It’s less crowded here, stop moaning,’ Claire said. Then she saw Stefan’s eye was trained on something else off to their left.

‘You see that?’ he said.

CHAPTER 3

The group of teenage boys continued to shove each other, shouting and laughing, goading each other towards the lake’s frozen edge. One of them, Sean, who was much fatter than the rest, shoved his shoulder into his friend, Harry, with such brute force that the boy spilt his drink.

‘You fat fucker,’ Harry said, wiping the beer from his jeans.

‘Such a hard man,’ Sean jeered, the rest of the pack laughing and jumping around in a drunken mess. ‘Too scared to go on the ice.’

‘Don’t see you on it, you fat twat,’ Harry said, shoving his fist hard into an ample shoulder. Standing a good head taller than Harry, who was thin and wiry, Sean squared his large frame up to his opponent.

‘Twenty quid says you’re a fucking wimp.’ His voice was low and the alcohol seemed to roll off his tongue in an invisible boozy haze. Harry looked over Sean’s shoulder at their peers.

One boy was trying to chat to a group of young girls, who clearly weren’t interested. The rest were lighting up, drinking or pushing each other closer to the lake’s edge, laughing like a pack of hyenas.

Looking back into Sean’s eyes, Harry raised his chin. ‘Make it thirty. You’d better have the money.’

*

‘You see that?’ he said.

Claire followed Stefan’s gaze and sighed.

A boy, aged around thirteen, was walking on the ice, about twenty feet from the embankment. Even from this distance, they could see that the ice grew thin towards the middle of the lake.

Claire shook her head. ‘Why are kids so bloody stupid?’

Stefan sighed and dusted his hands free of crumbs. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’d better break this up.’

*

Harry, the boy on the ice, barely registered any fear, even when the ice underneath his feet started to crack. He looked back to his friends on the bank and laughed.

Trying to play the hard man, he took another step towards the middle of the lake and slipped, crashing down on the ice with brute force.

He felt the cold seep through his clothes almost immediately. He looked towards the embankment and heard his friends shouting.

A sea of faces now watched him in horror, just as he heard a cracking sound underneath him.

Before he could think, the ice gave way and he sank into the freezing cold water.

His head disappeared under the ice.

He gasped involuntarily with shock, his mouth filling with water. He kicked his legs until his head broke the surface, spitting the water from his mouth, before he went under again.

On the embankment, Stefan had slowly begun to edge himself out onto the ice, trying to distribute his weight evenly, while Claire called for an ambulance.

Harry was growing tired, his body shutting down, but he still managed to grab hold of the edge of the ice, trying to haul his body from the water.

Stefan heard the ice creaking under his own weight. He paused, dropped slowly to his knees and straightened his body out along the ice and shuffled closer on his belly.

Harry’s head went under water again, and Stefan moved faster, putting the sound of the creaking ice to the back of his mind.

Underneath the water, Harry was losing the fight.

His body ached to shut down, as the cold tore through his flesh. He was holding his breath, lungs aching for air.

Then he felt something against his foot catch and drag him. He kicked out, his foot colliding against something solid.

He risked opening his eyes and peered down. The light from the fireworks overhead sent down little chinks of light that fractured in the water.

He saw a face, pale and ghost-like.

Instinct caught him.

He opened his mouth to scream, water flooding into his airways, as he stared down into dark dead eyes.

Scared, and knowing this would be his last effort, he mustered his last ounce of strength and kicked his legs hard.

On the surface, Stefan was shivering, his breath coming in short sharp bursts as he edged as close as he dared to the hole in the ice.

Harry’s head then broke the surface, his body propelling forward, landing with his arms outstretched, flailing for something to grasp on the slippery surface. He began to slip back down again, but Stefan grasped his wrist.

‘Kick with your legs!’ he shouted, reaching out his other hand to grip the boy’s right arm. Harry kicked again and again, and even when his body was out on the ice, clear of the water, he didn’t stop.

Stefan pulled him to the embankment.

‘I need blankets,’ Claire shouted out to the gathered crowd. ‘Coats, anything.’

A few men took theirs off and started to wrap them around Harry. He’d been in the water less than ninety seconds, but to Harry it had felt like hours of having needles pushed underneath his skin.

He coughed up some water when Claire sat him forward, and before she could speak, she heard his rasping voice from behind his chattering teeth.

‘B… b… body.’

Stefan looked confused and lowered his face to the boy’s eye level. ‘What did you say?’

Harry grabbed Claire’s hand and looked deep into her eyes.

‘Body… in the water… Dead. Body.’

Claire saw the fear in his eyes, just before they closed and he fell unconscious in her arms.

Four Days Earlier

1st November – 11:02 p.m.

‘It’s your time.’

He stood watching her from the street corner, icy rain soaking him to the bone. He could have gone back to his car, chosen another night, but no matter how hard reason pleaded with him, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Everything about her disgusted him. The way she walked, the way she dressed, the way she talked.

Everything.

To him, her whole life was just a game determined by how much someone was willing to pay for her. The fact she was now with child complicated things, but also gave further justification to carry out what he’d planned for her.

Nola Grant stood at the side of the road. Her lanky, painfully thin frame cut a sombre stance under the street lamp. The fluorescent light cast shadows across her face but strangers could still see her wide-eyed vacant stare. She was tall and her bones jutted out at sharp angles, which were further exaggerated by her tight-fitting clothes.

She wore a low-rise, sleeveless top, no coat despite the cold, flaunting her many tattoos. The ink covered nearly all the flesh up both arms, and also found its way over her left shoulder and down onto her breast. Her light brown skin made the faded designs appear more muted in colour, but still made her stand out more than the other girls. Many men seemed intrigued to know just where else she had been scarred by the tattooist’s needle.

As a car pulled to a stop in front of her, she bent her head to see inside the open window. The harsh night made her even more eager to get away, to seek shelter from the rain that grew heavier by the second.

A price was quickly agreed, and the man across the road saw her disappear inside the car. He wondered how far gone she was with child, spawned by an unknown faceless punter. He hazarded a guess at no more than eleven weeks, since her belly showed no signs of swelling.

As the car pulled away into the unforgiving night, something inside spurred him on. He charged across the road, giving chase. The driver put his foot down before he could get close enough.

The man stood staring after the lights as they grew smaller by the second. What had he been thinking? He would have to make his move later, and promised himself that she would not leave him until he knew she was ready and she’d earned the right of safe passage.

*

Inside the car, Nola lit up a rolled cigarette, relishing the small amount of warmth and comfort it gave her. The sickly scent of cannabis swirled into the punter’s face and his mouth pulled into a hard line of disgust. He took one hand off the wheel, violently plucked the cigarette from her mouth, and discarded it out the window.

Nola risked a sideways glance at his face but stayed silent. He had paid for submissive and she had agreed to play the part in his twisted fantasy, no questions asked. As she sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from her tightly curled hair, she was indifferent when the car turned down a dark lonely side street.

Deep down she had never felt any shame in the fact that sometimes she enjoyed this job. The fact that she now carried another life inside her never even crossed her selfish mind and had no bearing on her decisions. Little did she know, or could have ever imagined, just how quickly this was about to change.

11:57 p.m.

It was nearly midnight when she was pushed from the car as it parked up outside the back entrance to a nightclub down another dark side-road. She hit the concrete, landing hard on her knees, cutting holes in her leggings.

The car door slammed shut behind her and tyres screeched on the wet tarmac. She pulled herself up, but fell forward onto her hands, feeling the raw sting as the surface cut her flesh. As if to add insult to injury, the heavens opened once again, and large drops of rain engulfed her.

‘You fucking prick!’ she screamed, as the car’s headlights disappeared into the darkness. She looked up to the night sky, but saw no moon. It had been raining heavily since early October with no signs of letting up. The bleak weather was in keeping with her mood.

She pulled herself to her feet, teetering on her thin high heels. She winced as a sharp surge of pain ran up through her groin. Nola was hurt, inside as well as out. If she hadn’t needed the money so bad, she’d never have got into that man’s car.

She inspected the grazes on her knees through the holes in her leggings, and then held her hands out in front of her. The falling rain stung the cuts on her palms, and she tucked both hands under her armpits. She was trying to get her bearings when she suddenly felt she was not alone.

‘Are you OK?’

The calm voice came from the darkness. Nola whipped her head around and saw a man approach her through the torrent of rain.

‘I saw what happened.’

Wary, she took a few steps back and the man slowed his pace, holding out his hands to calm her. ‘It’s OK. I just wanted to check you were all right.’

She searched his face, but it was hard to make anything out in the shadows.

She felt a flicker of recognition as she looked into his eyes and listened to his well-spoken, controlled voice, but it quickly passed. He wasn’t from Haverbridge, not this part anyway. She could see it in his clothes, the way he held his head high, the way he carried himself.

Cars whipped past down the main street several yards away, tyres cutting through puddles. Shrieks from those caught in the downpour rang out in the distance and the smell of fast food filled the air, carried on the wind, down towards them.

Nola longed to be anywhere but here with this man.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said, venturing forward.

She took a step back. ‘Stay away.’

‘I just want to help.’

‘And I said stay the fuck away.’

‘But you’re hurt.’

She stepped back again and looked for an exit. There was none. He was blocking any hope of getting to the busy street ahead. ‘Let me help you, please.’ His voice sounded gentle enough.

‘I don’t need your help,’ she spat. ‘I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches.’

He looked away, deep in thought. Her eyes never left his face. ‘I… I can pay you.’

‘What?’ Her face twisted. ‘Thought you were offering me help?’

‘I am, but since you seem reluctant to accept my help at face value, I thought I’d offer you something you weren’t used to turning down.’

Nola’s face screwed up with disgust. ‘Just fuck off,’ she said, her arm waving him away. She edged around him but he blocked her path.

‘You misunderstand me. I meant I’ll pay you if you let me help you.’ He reached out and lightly touched her arm.

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Please, I just want to help.’

‘Fucking weirdo,’ she said, pushing him aside.

‘Don’t be like that, Nola.’

She froze. The weight of his stare was crushing. ‘How’d you know my name?’

He smiled, stepping closer. ‘I know many things… Let me help you.’

2nd November – 00:48 a.m.

It was a welcome relief, as she slipped down lower into the hot bathwater. The man, who said his name was Aaron, had taken her back to his home and tended her wounds, fed her well, and explained how he’d watched her for some time now and felt he had to help her. Nola had thought it was creepy at first but the pull of a hot meal and a bath had been too great for her to dwell on it much.

She smiled as he handed her a bottle of shampoo. He returned the smile, for appearance’s sake, and went to leave her in peace.

‘Wait,’ she said, sitting up in the bath. ‘Would you mind?’ She held the shampoo bottle towards him. He looked down at her, his face blank. Only a few soapy bubbles covered her modesty, and he felt embarrassed. Eventually he nodded. He lathered up the liquid in his hands as he perched on the edge of the bath.

When he massaged the shampoo into her hair, he felt her shoulders relax beneath his touch. He realised that no matter how much mental and physical torture this whore could endure, deep down, when it came to it, at every opportunity she would use her body to her advantage. It made him sick. Still, it was this flaw that had made it easier for him to lure her into his house.

Stupid bitch.

Nola had no knowledge of his actions behind her, and he was free to cover her nose and mouth with the chloroform-soaked cloth he’d concealed inside his trouser pocket. She whipped her hands back, scratching at his arms as he held the rag tighter against her face. Bathwater sloshed over the sides as she thrashed her legs, until she became limp, sliding deeper into the unknown.

He dragged her body from the tub and let her fall, her limbs hitting the cold tiles, hard.

Nola Grant was not destined to drown in her own filth. All he knew was that she would be tested and she alone would decide the outcome. He would make her responsible for either her life or her death.

His face remained resolute as he dried her body and pulled her clothes on roughly, disgusted by her thin nylon underwear.

*

He barely struggled down the stairs to his basement; she was so light to carry. Once he had shackled her wrists, he looked down on her sleeping face and pushed stray strands of wet hair away from her eyes. In another life, she might have been pretty. Maybe she would have made her parents proud. Yes, maybe in another life. For now at least, Nola was going nowhere.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back. His eyes did one final sweep of the room, then her body, before switching out the light and locking the door behind him.

02:03 a.m.

She was freezing.

That was Nola’s first thought when she opened her eyes for the first time since being attacked in the bath. She didn’t know how long she’d been out cold. There was no concept of time down there with so little light, just a sense of dread and heaviness in the air.

She noticed the small lamp on a table in the corner. She tried to think but her head felt heavy, especially when she tried to pull herself up from the floor. She felt a sharp tug at her skin when she moved her hands.

She stared at the medieval-style shackles that circled around a pipe fixed to the wall and, instinctively, pulled the chain hard. The pipe vibrated, and metal bit tighter into her skin. She stifled a groan of desperation and pulled at the shackles again and again until she broke the skin and her wrists ached. She felt tears wash her cheeks as she began to sob.

*

Upstairs, the man smiled as he turned the volume down low on his television set. He wanted to imagine her pain, her desperation. It felt empowering. Although the basement was carefully soundproofed, he still heard the rumble in the pipe. Nola was finally awake, and probably cold and hungry. She would also be very scared… perfect.

*

She heard the floorboards creak above her, and sucked in a deep breath before screaming. It wasn’t until her throat felt red-raw that she stopped. She swallowed hard, the sensation akin to swallowing ground glass.

She heard the door at the top of the stairs groan, as locks were turned and a bolt drawn back. Her heart thundered against her chest, and she realised she was holding her breath. The door swung open and she saw his feet on the top of the wooden stairs. She pulled herself to her feet, the chain ringing against the pipe.

She backed against the wall.

The man slowly came down the stairs, taking his time, prolonging the agony inside her. Each creak of the wood under his weight made her nerves alive with fear.

‘Aaron?’

He stopped.

Inside, she cursed herself. She may not be the brightest but she felt really stupid for not realising that “Aaron” was not his real name. Everything about this man was a lie, and she’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

He continued down the stairs. She pushed herself further back against the wall, as if she could melt and hide inside the walls themselves.

He approached her with caution, and she noted the tray he was carrying, balancing a jug of water and a plate with a lid. It was like one of the stainless steel plates containing food she’d had in hospital once.

Underneath one arm he clutched neatly folded clothes. He stopped a few feet in front of her, watching her recoil. He frowned as he went to the table. She watched him like a hawk as he sat the tray down. Unfolding the clothes from under his arm, he turned to her, eyes hidden in the shadows cast across his face.

‘Are you thirsty?’

Silence.

Neither could hear anything but the sound of their own breathing. His eyes met hers. Nola Grant was scared all right. Scared to death almost.

‘You must stay hydrated to keep your strength up.’

She almost buckled at his words. ‘You’re not going to kill me?’ she said, a new wave of hope flooding her senses. His eyes narrowed, before looking back at the table.

‘I didn’t say that.’

Pause. ‘I just want to go home.’

He breathed in sharply and went to speak, but firmly shut his mouth and she immediately felt her heart sink. A fearful sweat took hold of her. Whatever nasty thought he had in his head quickly disappeared as he held up a pair of jeans and a thin jumper.

‘I’ve brought you a different set of clothes,’ he said, as he looked at her from head to toe. ‘Yours are… unsuitable.’

He edged closer, until he stood within a few inches of touching her. ‘I think I got your size right. I got the smallest in the shop, size six.’ Her eyes were silently questioning him. ‘Here, let me help you.’

As he reached out to touch her, she sank to the floor, drew up her legs towards her torso, raising her arms to protect herself.

‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, kneeling beside her on the rough cold concrete. He slipped his fingers down the waistband of her leggings, but she kicked him hard in the jaw, sending his head reeling to one side with a crack.

Then there was silence.

She pulled herself upright. His face was turned away from her, and he was bent forward to one side.

‘Now you know why I took those heels off you.’

She froze at the tone of his voice.

He swung his head back around to stare at her. His eyes were darker than before. They were frightening, almost no iris, just pupils dark and wide, bottomless holes.

He spat blood from his mouth onto the floor, narrowly missing her leg. She watched him arch a finger inside his mouth, pull it out and inspect the blood on his fingertip. He’d bitten his cheek with the force of her blow. It took every ounce of strength to suppress his inner rage.

For a brief moment he recalled his mother’s words from when he was about twelve years old. “Jekyll and Hyde.” That was the only way she could ever describe him to anyone.

‘Don’t try that again, or I’ll have to shackle your ankles as well.’ He spoke quietly, but Nola recognised the very real threat behind his words. She recoiled as he reached out for her again. This was part of the humiliation he wanted her to feel, right down to her core.

‘I don’t want to change my clothes.’ She rushed her words, and even to her own ears, she could hear as the sentence tumbled from her mouth that the words sounded jumbled. Almost incoherent. She was losing her control.

‘Your clothes offend me, Nola. You will change or you won’t eat. That’s how it is. How it has to be.’ He sat forward and pulled her leggings over her small hips.

She squirmed. ‘No, please, let me change myself.’ She tried to push his hands away. The chain around the pipe vibrated under the strain. He looked at her, then the shackles. ‘Give me this one bit of dignity, please, I beg you.’

He weighed up her request. It wasn’t unreasonable and he didn’t want to touch her any more than was necessary. He nodded and he could visibly see her relief.

He moved so close, she could feel the heat of his breath. ‘I’m going to unlock your shackles. I’ll be waiting right outside the door whilst you change. When you’re decent, sit back on the floor and call for me.’

Nola nodded obediently, forcing a grateful smile.

He suddenly reached out and gripped her chin in his hand, twisting her face towards his. She felt flecks of spit on her lips as he spoke.

‘Listen to me carefully, Nola, this is very important… There is no other way out of this basement other than the door up those stairs.’

He saw her eyes glaze over again and a tear roll down her cheek. He watched it slide over her skin and felt an urge simmering inside him. He stretched out his tongue, catching the teardrops on the tip, and licked up the length of her cheek.

He closed his eyes, heard a desperate whimper escape her mouth. His eyes fluttered open. Hers were wide. Fearful.

‘I will always be right behind that door.’ He squeezed her chin hard. ‘Make sure you don’t forget that… Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

She blinked hard. She understood.

He produced a key from his pocket, held it in front of her eyes, then unlocked her shackles. He watched her rub each wrist before he passed her the clothes. When he reached the top of the stairs, he turned and glared at her.

‘Remember what I said.’

*

Nola changed quickly, never taking her eyes from the door. Her legs were trembling as she pulled the jeans up and over her hips. They were a perfect fit; the man had chosen well. When she pulled the jumper on, it also fit seamlessly. The man had guessed her size, which unnerved her even more.

Just how long has he been watching me?

Her eyes took in the room. She was desperate for a way out but was mindful of what he’d said to her, and she believed every word. She called out to him, and after a long pause he opened the door and came down the stairs towards her. He stared at her from head to toe, and nodded, pleased with himself.

‘You look much better. More respectable.’ Nola didn’t know why, but she found herself smiling at him, as if she needed his approval. She watched him pick up the shackles and raise them towards her. ‘Back in these, please.’

He saw her face fall.

‘It’s a necessity.’

Once he pulled the shackles around the pipe and cuffed her again, he retrieved the tray from the table and set it on the floor by her feet. He removed the lid, and steam from a hot casserole swirled up towards her, and her stomach tightened with pangs of hunger.

He looked at her face thoughtfully before pointing at the food. ‘Please eat.’

She sat on the floor cross-legged but hesitated. He smiled. ‘It’s fine. I’ve not poisoned it.’ He produced a plastic spoon, threw it into her lap. ‘Eat now, because there won’t be anything else for a while, and you’ll only get fed if you’re good.’

‘How long have I been out?’

His face was serious. ‘Not long enough for anyone to notice you’ve gone.’

She shivered at the words but found the strength to press him further. ‘Why am I here? What’ve I done?’ He twitched at her tone of voice, as if it were painful to his ears. He paused.

‘You’ll find out soon enough, just eat.’ He retrieved the water from the table and poured some into a plastic cup, then sat it down beside her. ‘Make sure you drink,’ he said, before climbing back up the stairs. When he reached the top he looked down at her and scanned the room, checking for anything that might be out of place. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes, then I’ll be taking your plate.’

She looked away, holding back her tears. ‘Don’t try anything stupid, and remember what I’ve told you.’ Then he slammed the door after him. As she heard the turn of a key and a bolt lock her away again, she flung her head back, letting out a guttural cry.

02:06 a.m.

‘They say we should get snow.’

Rachel Larson was hugging her coat tighter around her body, bracing herself against the strong wind. She’d given up trying to light her cigarette after several attempts against the gale. The yellow flame from her lighter appeared fleetingly in small sparks before dying.

‘I should give up,’ she said, pulling the cigarette from her dry lips and throwing it to the floor.

‘Hey, I would’ve had that,’ said her friend, Olivia Jones, who stooped to pick it up. Her cold fingers barely felt the cigarette between them as she put it in her coat pocket.

‘Livi, that’s been on the floor.’

‘Your point?’ She turned her back to the wind, wild blonde hair thrashing around her face.

‘The pavement’s dirty.’

‘I’m sure I’ve had worse in my mouth, Rach,’ she laughed, turning to face her again. ‘In fact, I know I have.’

‘You skank.’

‘Isn’t that what punters pay for?’

Rachel forced herself to bury her smile. Olivia grinned then checked her watch. ‘Where are all the desperate lonely men?’ Rachel shrugged and checked her own watch. ‘Have you managed to get hold of Nola yet?’ Olivia asked, seeing the worried expression on her friend’s face.

‘No.’

‘I’m sure she’s fine.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘It’s just not like her. We have, like, this unwritten rule to always check in with each other when we see a new client.’

Olivia shrugged, then caught the eye of a man lingering around the local Nisa supermarket opposite where they stood. He gestured towards her, a simple nod of his head.

‘Customer at last,’ she said, turning to face Rachel. ‘I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?’ Rachel forced herself to smile but could not hide the worry in her eyes. Olivia reached out and rubbed her shoulder. ‘She’ll be all right, Rach, you’ll see. She may be back at the flat by now. You know Nola. She’s like a bad fucking penny… She always comes back.’

‘Maybe.’

The feeling that all was not well pinched Rachel’s body. She shivered but was unable to shake the feeling. As Olivia turned to leave, she reached out for her arm. ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

Olivia smiled and nodded. ‘I’ll see you later, Rach.’

She watched Olivia disappear from view towards the back of the Nisa with the man. She looked at her watch for the hundredth time then checked the streets around her.

It was definitely quiet tonight and the thought of going back to her flat, which she’d shared with Nola this past year, was a comforting one. As the wind picked up again, the blast of icy cold made the decision for her.

She turned off down the high street and followed the road around, walking the next three blocks to her home very quickly, passing the rundown blocks of flats and maisonettes with some dread. She’d had a few near misses around here. The dark corners and dead ends were a breeding ground for dark deeds.

It was a relief when she finally climbed the iron stairs that ran up the side of the local shops to her flat. She closed the front door, blocking out the cold behind her. She could smell the pungent scent of fat as she took her boots off in the cramped hallway.

She hated living here, but being directly above a chip shop did have the advantage of keeping the flat reasonably warm during the cold weather, which helped keep her heating bills down. The less her bills cost, the fewer times she had to lie on her back to pay them.

Tonight, though, felt extra chilly so she plugged in the electric heaters in each room, turning them up high. She went to Nola’s bedroom, and smiled a little at the “Queen of Fucking Everything” sign on the door, before she knocked.

Silence.

‘Nola? You in there?’

She tapped her knuckles on the door again and pulled the door handle. The room was how Nola had left it the day before. Clothes were strewn across the unmade bed, make-up left out on the floor in front of a full length mirror, along with her hair dryer and a wrap of something white and powdery. Rachel’s heart sank and she took out her mobile from the pocket in her jeans.

‘Nola, it’s Rach,’ she said as her call was immediately diverted to voicemail. ‘I’m worried.’ She didn’t know what else to say and left a long pause before finding her voice again. ‘Please, call me as soon as you get this.’ She checked her watch again.

02:43 a.m.

‘If you’ve not been in touch by midday…’ She broke off mid-sentence. ‘Just call me.’ She hung up, pushed the mobile back in her pocket and went to the kitchen.

After she’d eaten and got ready for bed, she checked her mobile again. There was one text message from Olivia, saying she was OK, but nothing else. Unable to ignore the feeling of dread inside her belly, she curled up in her bed, the duvet wrapped tightly around her, but was unable to sleep.

02:43 a.m.

Her feet were like blocks of ice. Nola flexed her toes to ease the numbness. She’d wolfed down her food, without a moment’s thought to savour the taste. When she heard the door unlocking again, she closed her eyes with dread. The man was soon beside her and she noticed he was carrying a large leather pouch. He laid it on the table carefully, his fingers lingering on the drawstring cord. He was trembling. He forced himself to move away.

She shut her eyes tight, as if it would make him disappear when she opened them again. She prayed silently that this was all a dream. A twisted nightmare she would safely wake from.

She’d be frightened but unharmed.

He cleared a space for himself on the floor in front of her and waited for her to look at him. When she finally did, it was through bloodshot eyes.

‘Can I have some socks and shoes, please? My feet are so cold… so cold.’ Her heart sank when he shook his head. She sat up straight and leaned closer. He seemed so normal towards her most of the time. It was only if she pressed him, or became agitated, that he changed, like a switch being flicked on and off. She guessed if she played along with him, acted normal – or as normal as she could be – she might find a way out of this.

‘I won’t try to escape,’ she said. His eyes narrowed, suspicious. ‘If you promise you won’t hurt me, I won’t try to escape.’ She spoke with such conviction that he almost believed her.

He shook his head.

‘Do not make promises you have no intention of keeping.’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in. ‘Now’s the time when you should be thinking about the life that grows inside of you, rather than yourself.’

His words visibly shook her.

Her eyes widened. ‘How’d you… How could you know…’

‘Know that you’re pregnant?’ He smiled. ‘You should dispose of your rubbish more carefully. You can tell a lot about someone by what they throw out each week.’

He saw the shock on her face. She spent the next few moments thinking back to the longest three minutes of her life, when she’d taken that pregnancy test. She knew what the answer would be before the double lines appeared in the results window.

She’d been throwing up regularly and her body ached all the time, like she was expecting her period, but it hadn’t come. The aches continued and she was so tired, much more than usual. When the test had shown positive, she’d discarded it and buried her head in her hands, feeling nothing but despair.

She knew if Daryl found out there would be big trouble and she could kiss goodbye to her earnings. Then there was her life. It wouldn’t be worth living. This business had a strong hold on her and she doubted she had the strength to fight it.

‘How far gone are you?’ he asked. When she didn’t reply, he looked at her, eyes fierce. ‘You’ve been to see a doctor, haven’t you?’ Her head lowered and she shook it solemnly.

He got to his feet and glared down on her. ‘Why not? Don’t you care?’

‘No, I don’t care. Why should I? I obviously don’t know who the father is. It could be anybody.’

He looked exasperated, turning away with a mock laugh, running his hands roughly through his dark hair. He paced up and down, before turning on his heels and peering down at her.

‘So, you were going to carry to full term then drop it down some side alley like it’s rubbish and carry on business as usual?’

Nola snapped. ‘Who the fucking hell do you think you are?’

When she saw the surprised look in his eyes, she felt a wave of confidence grow inside her. She pulled herself to her feet. ‘It’s not as if I was planning on going full term. Not that this has anything to do with you,’ she said, jabbing her finger hard in his chest. ‘Who are you to judge me?’

He rushed at her then. He gripped her face with both his hands, forced her eyes to look at his.

Inside he was reeling at the insolence. It took all his strength not to lose control completely and snap her delicate neck. He tried to focus on why he was doing this, why she was there.

‘I’m trying to help you. Give that life inside you a chance, yet you mock me,’ he spat, his mouth just inches away from hers.

A look of defiance washed over her face. ‘I’ll scream the place down before you even lay another finger on me!’

A cruel grin spread across his face. He pulled her head violently to the side and whispered in her ear. ‘Soundproof room, Nola. Do your worst.’ He released her head and took a step back, before swinging his fist square into her jaw.

*

03:36 a.m.

Second chances. Second chances. They could be tricky things. Obstacles almost. He wondered if it was a sign of weakness to break his own rules, bend to anyone and suffer the consequences. He’d given people second chances before. His mother had been one of them.

No, he thought. His mother had more than a second chance. She’d had many, and failed each time. They’d been wasted on her. He didn’t want to be tested. He was the teacher, not the pupil. She would bend to him and if she didn’t, that was it. Literally game over, even if it did hurt him a little.

Sometimes a conscience, be it small and almost invisible, had its drawbacks. Its hidden problems. A conscience was overrated.

He’d tried. It wasn’t working.

Despite wanting to offer her a second chance, he found she was leaving him with little choice. He’d expected some resistance, but unlike the woman before Nola, he’d expected her to fight for her life to save the baby that grew inside her.

Nola Grant wanted to live, but for herself, not for her child. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body when he touched her skin. The need to survive radiated from every pore but she was only making it harder and harder for him to justify letting her live.

He felt sad, desperate, and that he’d failed. Failed her, the child, himself… and because of this, he could feel the familiar knot of shame pull at his insides.

A conscience is overrated. He was trying to believe his own thoughts, but his heart tugged away at him inside.

Nola Grant must die. She must die, so that others might stand a chance to be touched by his hand and steered back to the right path.

She must die… she has to.

*

04:06 a.m.

Nola had spent the last half hour swearing at him, spitting her filth like a person possessed. Her legs lashed out at him violently whenever he tried to come near and calm her.

Inside his head, he could hear his mother’s voice screaming obscenities at him back when he was a small boy. Nowadays, he couldn’t abide the language. It tapped into a pain deep within him and he knew he couldn’t stand much more. He was nearly at breaking point.

‘I won’t tell you again,’ he said, turning to face her, his finger pointing. ‘This is your last warning.’

Her head shot backwards as she laughed. It didn’t sound human.

He used his hands to cover his ears, drowning her out.

She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He was acting like a little child. She half expected him to start stomping his feet in a paddy and she felt more confident the more he seemed to crumble in front of her.

His spine stretched upright, as if he’d just been shocked. He looked at the pouch he’d put on the table earlier, then at her mouth.

Sound seemed to be sucked from the room, and all he could see was her mouth moving, spouting more poison.

Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

He reached for the pouch, pulled away the cord, and took out a pair of scissors. He hadn’t intended on using any of the items in the bag: the knuckleduster, the pliers, the lighter. He was only going to frighten her with them, so that she’d fear what he might do if she didn’t obey him. If she didn’t see reason.

Nola Grant was beyond seeing reason by now.

He thought she’d have been ideal for his plans. That she would embrace the new life offered to her. A second chance to teach her. A chance to leave her current way of life behind and raise her child with none of the trappings that life entailed. But she was pure filth, inside and out, and she would never change. She didn’t want to… There were others. Others more worthy, deserving, more in need. He’d had enough of her abuse.

He clasped the scissors in his palm.

He edged closer.

She kicked out, screaming insults at him. He blocked out her words, let them wash over him. She meant nothing to him any more.

A conscience is overrated.

As her leg kicked out again, she caught him in the thigh. He stifled a groan, but remained focused. He grabbed her leg, pulling hard, knocking her off balance.

Her body crashed to the floor, collapsing in a heap at his feet. Before she could react, he was down on her, grasping her in a headlock with one arm. With his other hand he gripped the scissors in his sweaty palm, and weighted her body down with his own.

He released her head, pried open her mouth and pulled at her tongue.

She gagged, spluttered, but he maintained his grip, forcing the scissor blades either side of the thrashing muscle.

She froze.

She felt the metal edges scrape her soft flesh. She whimpered, helpless.

‘Hold your tongue or lose it!’

He roared so close to her ear, she thought the drum might burst. ‘Do you understand me?’ He felt her head nod. He could feel the fear radiate from her body in waves so strong, he could almost taste it.

She had to die. He knew this now, but it had changed his plans somewhat. Nola had been a mistake, but he’d learn from it.

She whimpered when he removed the scissors and released her body from under him.

She curled herself up into a ball, her back towards the wall, head tucked down with her chin resting on her chest. He saw her body shake violently as sobs overcame her. He allowed her a few moments of respite before the inevitable came.

08:32 a.m.

Rachel woke to the sound of someone banging on her front door. She bolted from the bed and ran. She flung open the front door, ignoring the cold that flooded in from outside.

‘Nola?’

‘Erm, no,’ replied Olivia, standing with a large McDonald’s paper bag under one arm. She stared at Rachel from head to toe. ‘You may wanna put more clothes on, Rach,’ she said, pushing her way over the threshold. ‘It’s like minus ten or something.’

Rachel looked down at her thin pyjama bottoms and bra, but she didn’t care. The cold was nothing compared to the inner torment she’d had to put up with all night.

‘I got us breakfast,’ Olivia said, heading towards the kitchen. She started pulling out the cardboard cartons from the paper bag. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’ She took a large bite of her burger. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said with her mouth full.

Rachel looked at her, despondent. ‘I thought you were Nola.’

Olivia stopped chewing, keeping her eyes trained to the floor.

‘I’ve still not heard from her.’

Finishing her mouthful, Olivia turned to face her. ‘You told Daryl yet?’

‘Have I hell,’ Rachel said, reaching for her burger. ‘He’s been calling though.’

‘What you been telling him?’

‘I’ve been avoiding answering.’

Olivia gave a mock laugh. ‘FYI, that’s not wise.’ Rachel threw her burger down on the counter and rested her face in her hands.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve left him a voicemail saying she’s been with a punter for a few days, that she’d been paid up front, but I can’t keep it up much longer.’ She picked up her burger again and took a large bite. ‘He’s started leaving me nasty messages already,’ she said between mouthfuls.

‘Course he has, that’s Daryl.’ Olivia chewed the last mouthful of her Big Mac and dusted her hands together, sending crumbs to the floor. ‘Look, way I see it, Nola’s gone AWOL ’cos she don’t want to be found. You can’t force her, Rach. She knows the price she’ll pay if she runs out on Daryl – we all do.’ She placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder.

Sadly, Rachel knew from personal experience just what he was capable of. Daryl Thomas was their pimp. He ran their lives for them, as he did with all of his girls. He took a big percentage of what they earned on the street, dictated to them what to wear, how to act, and told them who they could talk to, and what he would do if any of them tried to walk out on him.

Rachel had tried it once – a long time ago now it seemed – and she had nearly got away from him. If it hadn’t been for another girl giving her away (Rachel never did find out who), she would’ve been free of him. On that occasion it had taken seventeen stitches to put her head wound back together and another five in her split lip, followed by several trips back and forth to the hospital until her arm was fixed again after a difficult break. All things considered, she’d got off lightly, compared to what Daryl had done to others.

She watched Olivia pull out her hairbrush from her bag and run it through her long hair, and wished she could be more like her; living each day as it came, and never really worrying about anything.

Despite her slight frame, Olivia was tough and streetwise. Rachel was the opposite; her long auburn hair, with large curls, made her look younger than her twenty years. Her build was average, and she was taller than Olivia, but she wasn’t anywhere near as robust.

She was about to ask Olivia what she thought she should do about Daryl, when they both heard Nancy Boy by Placebo echoing from Rachel’s room.

They stared at each other, motionless as statues.

Rachel shrieked. ‘My phone!’

Both girls nearly fell over themselves, as they skidded across the hall and into the bedroom. Rachel’s mobile was flashing on her bedside cabinet, but the call diverted to voicemail as she picked it up. She pressed the answer button anyway.

‘Hello? Nola?’

‘You missed the call,’ Olivia sighed as she launched herself onto Rachel’s bed. ‘You should’ve kept it on you.’

‘The caller ID says unknown, it might not have been her.’

‘Probably Daryl then.’

Rachel was silent and stared at her phone, willing it to ring again. After a few minutes the phone lit up and let out a beep.

1 New Voicemail Msg

Both girls looked at each other, then the phone.

Rachel hesitated.

‘You gonna listen to that or what?’

Rachel looked at Olivia then the phone again. She swallowed hard as she pressed the button to retrieve the message. Warily, she held the mobile to her ear.

Her eyes widened as the message played out. It sounded so surreal, she didn’t even know whether to believe it or not. She remained silent and when the message finished, she felt tears pricking at the surface of her eyes, like thousands of tiny red-hot needles.

*

08:45 a.m.

Nola wailed as the man hung up her mobile and tossed it to the floor. The lid of the battery compartment came away on impact and cracked, but the phone itself seemed to be intact and working. He’d deliberately withheld the number when placing the call moments ago.

As she hung upside down, tethered to a steel framework attached to the ceiling, her arms hung down, hands grasping at nothing but air. She knew she was too far from the mobile to reach it but still she tried.

She saw his big black boots come into view. He placed his foot on her mobile, then raised it high before bringing it crashing down. The cracking sound from her only source of help resounded in her ears. Her eyes clamped shut, her mouth pinched, as she fought back fresh tears.

Her senses were tingling. She was so cold. A draught was coming from a gap under the wooden door to the building. She’d been stripped naked and was now hanging precariously from the rafters, open to whatever torment was to come.

Her blood rushed to her head and she prayed she would black out.

The man watched her, eyes looking like dark holes. The pits of hell set deep in his pale face. She pleaded with him as he drew nearer but it was pointless. He held the knife at his side for her to see. The best she could now hope for was that it would be over quickly. She closed her eyes tight, bracing herself.

Then she felt the blade.

*

08:46 a.m.

‘We’ve got to go to the police.’

‘And tell them what?’

Olivia was now losing patience, and paced the room. Rachel was already getting dressed, stumbling as she pulled her trainers on her feet.

‘I’ll tell them Nola’s missing and about the call,’ she rushed, grabbing her coat as she made her way to the front door. ‘They’ll help.’ Olivia, following behind, reached out and grabbed her hand as she touched the door handle.

‘We’ve got to work, Rach,’ she said, her eyes looking deadly serious. ‘Daryl wants to see us.’

Rachel was frozen by her words. Daryl wanting to see them suddenly meant one thing – trouble. ‘What’ve you told him, Livi?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, averting her glance from Rachel.

‘You’re lying to me.’

Olivia was silent, but her face gave her away. Rachel’s body tensed and she raced back into her bedroom and went to the bed. ‘I can’t believe you’ve told him what’s been going on, that I’ve lied to him.’ She reached under her pillow and pulled out a knife.

Olivia’s eyes widened. ‘What the fuck, Rach? You’re not taking that out with you. I’m not letting you.’ She grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard, but Rachel refused to drop the blade.

‘Don’t you remember how long it took me to heal the last time Daryl messed me up?’

‘He won’t touch you this time, I promise.’

‘I’m going to help Nola. I’m going to help myself.’ Tears were now falling down her cheeks. ‘I need to get away from Daryl, from all of this.’

‘You don’t know if the voicemail’s real or fake, Rach. Wake up!’

‘I heard her screams in the background.’ Her words ensured a long desperate silence between them both, until Rachel managed to find her voice again.

This time she spoke softly. ‘I heard her. She was crying for help. She said he was going to kill her, whoever he is,’ she said, dropping her knife to the floor. ‘I can’t ignore that. She wouldn’t joke about something like this.’

Olivia’s face softened. ‘I’ll go with you to the police, but let me call Daryl first.’

‘No!’

‘All right, no phone call,’ she said, putting her mobile back in her pocket, ‘but you got to talk to him sometime.’

Rachel nodded. ‘I know… Let’s just find Nola first.’

CHAPTER 4

Present Day

6th November

Ice crunched under her feet as she walked over the grass verge, towards the lake where the body had been pulled from the water. Smoke from the fireworks still hung heavy in the air.

The winter sun was just beginning to break through the darkness, lying low on the horizon, and as she walked towards the white incident tent ahead, she stifled a yawn.

It had been a long night for forensic pathologist Dr Danika Schreiber, having been on call, and she could barely keep her eyes open. She was met by Claire, who was shivering in the cold, puffing on a cigarette.

‘Thought you were giving up?’ Danika said as she placed her case on the ground next to her. Her faint German accent was still audible, despite the fact she had lived in England for several years.

‘It’s been a long night.’ Claire stomped her feet against the ground, trying to revive her frozen toes.

‘For us both. That’s why I’m late. The last job took longer than expected.’ She peered over Claire’s shoulder and stared out towards the broken ice floating on the water. ‘Is that where you found the body?’

Claire flicked her cigarette from her fingers and it rolled across the ground. She nodded as she exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘Yep, and it wasn’t easy dragging her up either. You’re bloody lucky it’s only one body as well.’

‘Yes, I heard you had to rescue a boy who’d fallen through,’ she said, pulling the hood of her Tyvek paper suit over her long black hair. ‘Where is DI Fletcher? OK, I hope?’

‘He’s gone with the boy to the hospital until we can locate the boy’s parents. From what information we got out of those drunken friends of his, the mother’s a lush and the father’s not much better. We’re having trouble finding them.’

They walked under the police tape and towards the incident tent. Danika pulled on a pair of overshoes, then thin blue plastic gloves, and followed Claire inside the tent. She was careful not to disturb any potential evidence, keeping to the plastic walkway which led towards the body. She squinted under the glare of the large spotlights, one in each of the four corners of the tent.

Both women looked down at the body. The face of a young girl stared back at them. Her body was naked, with a thick chain around her ankles. Danika stared at the heavy coiled links.

‘Someone weighted her down,’ she said, kneeling next to the body. Her eyes glanced over the girl’s face and down to her toes. Then she returned to the deep cut to the side of the neck. The remains of dried blood were partially spattered down the dead woman’s neck and chest, still visible despite having been in the lake. The water had given the blood a dull hue against the skin.

‘How long do you think she’s been under the ice?’ Claire said.

‘It’s hard to say at this stage. When someone has been in cold storage, it slows the process of decomposition. It will be hard to pinpoint a time of death.’

‘She’s not been in a fridge, Danika.’

‘Yes, but being under the ice has had the same effect to some degree. If she had been found elsewhere, there would be larvae, maggots… I could pinpoint the time period. There are no obvious signs of scavengers having tampered with the body, although I’ll know more when I’ve examined her properly, but it suggests maybe she’s not been in the water very long.

‘There’s a little orange tinge to the skin, which is to be expected as she’s been submerged, but it’s minimal. Again this would indicate she’s not been here long.’ She paused, frowning hard. ‘That chain’s a bit excessive. Even with it weighting her down, she’d have risen to the surface eventually, but you were lucky to find her now before the skin started to peel.’

Danika looked up. ‘It’s looking likely loss of blood is the cause of death.’ Claire cocked her head, looking at the body at a new angle as Danika continued. ‘She has a deep laceration to the side of the neck, most likely severing a jugular vein, carotid artery and the trachea. Death would have occurred within seconds, but she was probably killed somewhere else and dumped in the lake.’

‘Ensuring most of the evidence is washed away.’ Claire’s voice was stern. Danika nodded in agreement.

‘That’s why there isn’t as much blood here as there should be.’ She pulled herself up and snapped a glove off over her hand. ‘Wherever your crime scene is, it would’ve been a bloodbath.’

‘The blood would’ve been cleared up.’

‘Yes, but with the best will in the world it would be practically impossible to clear every last drop of it. There’ll be a scrap or fine trace of it left somewhere. It’s your job to find it.’

CHAPTER 5

Detective Sergeant Elias Crest rolled the biro he’d been chewing over his teeth, staring blankly at the newspaper on the table in front of him.

He’d been in Haverbridge CID less than a week and still he felt on edge. Moving back down south after living in Liverpool for the best part of eight years – five spent in CID – it was taking him time to adjust to his new surroundings.

It would take him even longer to adjust to working under yet another female DCI. His old Guv, DCI Meredith Glass, had been tough but she at least gave him the benefit of the doubt.

DCI Winters however… He chewed his bottom lip as he cast his mind back to his first morning. She’d shaken his hand, but gripped it tight. He’d wondered if that had been her way of asserting her authority without the need for words to be spoken.

He knew she would have seen his file. Seen the reason he was transferring. Not that he gave a shit about what she thought in that respect but still, it bothered him. He didn’t want her to have something she could hold over him, something she could use as leverage if she wanted.

Meredith Glass had tried that once.

He had smiled at Claire, in a vain attempt to hide his reservations. He’d asked her to call him by his first name, when she’d addressed him merely as ‘Crest’, but it had the opposite of the desired effect.

Her grip had tightened around his hand further, her face dropping any hint of a smile she may have expressed.

‘I try to make it a habit never to go by first names, Crest,’ she had said. He remembered how she’d given him the once over, head to toe, without any subtlety.

‘To you, I’m “Ma’am”, “Guv”, “Boss”… Yes?’ she’d said.

Elias had remained silent. ‘And “Bitch”?’ he’d thought, suppressing a wry smile.

He remembered feeling a boiling heat rise up inside him as she had explained what was expected of him.

‘You’ll be mainly under the supervision of DI Fletcher, a very competent and respected member of my team,’ she had said, watching his face carefully.

Elias had kept his eyes focused ahead. He knew when to pick his fights and when to merely observe.

And what was that last part she’d said? Something that had made him question what he was doing here. He grimaced as he remembered, her words echoing inside his head.

‘I have no time for men who find it hard to work under the authority of a woman.’

She had deliberately let that sentence hang there in silence a moment longer than she’d needed to.

Elias figured he’d deserved that. Still, his eyes narrowed, the memory fresh in his mind, eating away at him.

I wish I knew exactly what was in my file.

Then there had been that parting shot – ‘I won’t tolerate mavericks.’

It was these words that jolted him out of his reverie, back to the lunch room.

He eyed the few people that were gathered around the vending machine, and plucked the biro from his mouth, flicking it across the table with irritation.

He’d decided to sit on his own. He wasn’t in the mood for making friends. He’d had friends before he transferred, or so he thought. Where had they been when he needed someone to cover his arse? Watching their own backs, that’s where. Doing everything by the book. Sometimes rules had to be broken for the greater good.

He tried to push the thought from his mind, staring down at his lunch, but although the hot meal smelled delicious, he didn’t feel very hungry. Instead he added five heaped teaspoons of sugar to his coffee cup and slowly began to stir. He barely noticed DI David Matthews as he sat in the chair opposite him.

‘You’ll come crashing down about five o’clock if you’re not careful,’ he said, as he poured milk into his own cup. Elias stopped stirring, raising his eyes wearily, face blank.

‘Sugar rush,’ Matthews said. ‘You’ll be crashing in so many hours, mate.’ He gestured to the coffee. When Elias failed to acknowledge him, Matthews pushed his own cup to one side and folded his arms on the table. ‘She really isn’t that bad.’

Elias scoffed and shook his head in disagreement. ‘Why do you assume I have a problem with Claire?’

Matthews cocked an eyebrow. ‘Written on your face.’

‘Don’t take the piss.’

Matthews held up his hands. ‘I’m serious, mate, she’s just testing you. She likes to see how tough you are, and no offence, but you’re kinda falling at the first hurdle.’

Elias was having none of it. ‘I grew up in Brixton, mate. I don’t have to prove I’m tough enough. I’ve nothing to prove to her and my credentials speak for themselves. I’m not an idiot.’

Matthews sat back in his chair. ‘Look, I know she’s hard to get along with at first, but everyone agrees once they get to know her… Claire wouldn’t be Claire if she was any different.’

‘I have no intentions of getting to know her on a personal level.’

Matthews chewed his bottom lip, taking in the new DS carefully.

Elias was in his mid-thirties, dressed smartly, with fashionably messy hair that was streaked with blonde highlights.

A pair of large hazel-coloured eyes looked back at Matthews, with a steely edge to them.

‘You got a problem or something, working under a woman?’

Elias practically scowled. ‘No.’

Matthews raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure about that, mate?’ Silence hung heavy in the air. ‘’Cos if it’s a gender thing–’

‘It’s not.’

‘It’s pretty old-school, thinking like that.’

‘I respect women officers… good ones.’

‘DCI Winters not good enough?’

Elias paused, being careful. ‘I never said that.’

‘But?’

‘But… she does have a reputation.’

Matthews saw a little of himself in the new recruit, back when he first started his career as a PC. He also recalled his first impression of Claire when he started in CID. It would be hypocritical of him to be completely hard on Elias for his initial thoughts on their Guv. He ran his hand back through his brown hair and said, ‘You definitely won’t last five minutes with that attitude. She’ll eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

‘Who’s eating who for what now?’ asked Stefan, as he approached the table.

‘Claire,’ said Matthews, not taking his eyes from Elias.

‘Ah. He’s having reservations about his transfer.’

‘Yep.’

‘To be expected, I guess.’

‘We’ve all been through it.’

‘Yeah, I remember it well.’

‘You know I am sitting right here,’ Elias interjected. ‘You needn’t talk as if I wasn’t.’

Exchanging glances with Matthews, Stefan looked apologetic.

‘You’re right. Sorry, it was meant as a joke,’ he said, taking a seat beside Matthews. ‘Guv’s called a team brief in twenty minutes; see where we are with the body in the lake.’ He glanced at Elias. ‘You ever see anything like it before?’

Elias shook his head, but avoided Stefan’s eyes. ‘Saw my fair share of depravity, but this has a different feel to it.’

Stefan eyed Elias closely, noted his pale drawn face, and then glanced at the untouched food in front of him.

‘Did Claire actually have the power to make you lose your appetite as well?’ Stefan asked. Elias glanced up, and then looked at Matthews, who hid a smile in his coffee cup. He returned his gaze to Stefan and glowered.

‘Hey, I’m being serious,’ Stefan said, jabbing Matthews hard in the ribs. ‘Ignore him. He’s just glad Claire’s taken the heat off him in favour of you.’

‘That’s not fair, Fletch.’

‘Come off it, you love the banter, you practically ask for it,’ he said, winking at Elias. Matthews ignored him and picked up the newspaper on the table.

Stefan looked at Elias and thought he caught a hint of a smile.

‘You gonna eat that?’ Stefan pointed his fork at the full plate. Elias shrugged, then shook his head, pushed the plate aside and sipped his coffee.

Stefan sat back in his chair. ‘Did she give you the “no first name” spiel?’ Elias remained silent. ‘She does give that speech to everyone.’

Elias sat back in his chair, jutted out his chin in defiance. ‘You think I’m taking myself too seriously.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Well you said it,’ Matthews quipped.

‘Ignore him,’ said Stefan. ‘Best thing you can do is not take Claire’s attempts to destroy you seriously. She’s as harmless as a kitten really.’

‘As far as harmless sharp-clawed kittens go,’ Matthews added, nose still buried in the newspaper. Stefan rolled his eyes at him.

‘Cut her some slack. She’s really been through it in the last year. What with all that uncertainty with her father and… ’

He trailed off when he saw he’d piqued Elias’s interest.

‘She’s tough,’ he said at length, ‘but she’s good. I’d trust her with my life, Crest. You just got to earn her trust and respect.’

Elias sat forward and looked stern again, his hands now clasped in front of him on the table. ‘You know respect works both ways, right?’

Stefan’s eyes narrowed, silently questioning.

‘I mean, I can see you’re her biggest fan n’ all that but I don’t need to know the inner workings inside her head. I’ll deal with her in my own way.’

There was a long pause as the two men stared at each other. Stefan raked his fingers through his floppy light brown hair, trying to work Elias out. Realising he might have spoken too harshly, Elias added, ‘Thanks, though… for the advice.’

He stood, drained the last dregs of his coffee and set the cup back down onto the table with a bang. ‘Team briefing now, yes?’ he said as he left.

Stefan felt Matthews looking at him.

‘Are we taking bets on how long it takes him to walk?’

Stefan watched Elias leave the canteen. ‘I think he’s gonna need training wheels that’s for sure.’

CHAPTER 6

From his desk, back in CID, Elias watched her through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of her office, talking into the phone glued to her ear.

Claire must have felt eyes on her, because she looked up, straight in his direction.

He looked away first.

‘And what’re you doing for Christmas? Have you been a good girl this year?’

Elias glanced up, saw Matthews was beside Claire as soon as she came out of her office. Her face turned from a frown to what he thought was the faintest hint of a smile.

‘I’ll probably be in my straitjacket,’ she said.

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do I even want to know?’

‘My mother’s staying… Probably right up until Christmas.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t tell me Iris managed to prise herself away from the Costa Brava?’

‘Her once-a-year jaunt.’

‘When it’s this cold as well…’

‘She’s full of surprises,’ she said, as she took her place at the front of the room. After several seconds the room quietened down.

‘By a stroke of luck, we’ve already got some news on the body,’ Claire said, as she circulated some photographs of a young woman who, despite smiling, had eyes that remained dark pits, captured in time, the light never reaching them.

‘Nola Grant, twenty-three years old, prostitute.’

‘So our Jane Doe has a name,’ Stefan said, crossing his legs when he sat down in his chair.

Claire nodded. ‘Switchboard took a call from a girl claiming to be her flatmate, who reported her missing on the second. Her name’s Rachel Larson. She heard about the body in the lake and she said it had to be Nola, based on the significant tattoos described on the body.

‘We ran the name. Grant was known to police for soliciting and has been cautioned for drug offences. Looking at the photograph we have on file and this one provided by Larson, it sure looks like the girl we pulled from the lake this morning. The post mortem should confirm her identity with the records we have on the system. Nola went missing in the early hours of Friday morning and guess who her pimp is?’

Everyone in the room looked expectant.

‘Daryl Thomas.’

Nobody spoke at first. Claire looked at Stefan.

He paused. ‘Christ…’

‘Yeah, I thought the same,’ she said. ‘The “filth beater” as he’s affectionately known since that assault on PC Southgate the other year.’ She paused. ‘That’s not the best bit either.’

She explained the missing persons report and the voicemail left on Rachel Larson’s mobile.

‘You’ve listened to the voicemail?’ Matthews said.

Claire shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t yet, and Nola was still being treated as a missing person. It couldn’t be established whether the call was legit and not a prank. We need to get Larson’s and Nola’s phone records. Larson should tell us who Nola’s network provider was. We also need her mobile, which leads me to my next question.’

She glanced at Elias.

‘Larson refused to say whether she’d formally ID the body and now her phone is switched off. I want you, Fletch, to head down to her flat – and take DS Crest with you.’

After allocating various other tasks to the rest of the team, Stefan was soon close beside her, pulling his coat on. Claire followed his line of vision.

It was firmly set on Elias.

‘Is this his test run?’

She paused. ‘You could say that.’ She stared at Elias. ‘Keep an eye on him, Fletch.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

‘Truth be told,’ she said, looking away when Elias glanced in her direction, ‘I’m not sure yet.’

CHAPTER 7

Elias looked out of the window and sighed as Stefan drove his car towards Rachel Larson’s flat. The tired-looking buildings that ran through the heart of the industrial area did little to enhance an already rundown part of Haverbridge. As they headed towards Haverbridge North, Stefan squinted at the bright shafts of light penetrating through random gaps in the gunmetal grey clouds above.

He hadn’t offered Elias any conversation and he felt uncomfortable. Racking his brains for something to chat about, he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound contrived or insincere.

‘Ice Maiden gave you permission to take me out with you, did she?’

Stefan’s face shot around to look at him, feeling Elias had somehow read his mind. He returned Stefan’s gaze. ‘I mean Claire, of course.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Stefan was never really any good at lying, not even telling little white ones.

‘Sure you don’t. Why would you? It’s all in my head, I get it,’ Elias said. Stefan remained quiet, concentrating on the traffic. ‘Is she like this with everyone she first meets?’

Stefan felt his face flush a little as he drew near a roundabout. ‘It’s the third exit here, isn’t it?’

Elias laughed. ‘Don’t change the subject.’

Stefan sighed as he followed the road away from the roundabout and slowed the car as he approached some local shops, pulling into one of three parking spaces outside a chip shop.

‘Larson’s flat is one of them over the shops,’ he said, looking Elias hard in the face. ‘And with Claire, just cut her some slack. You’re new to a tight-knit team, she’s naturally wary.’

Elias looked incredulous. ‘Everyone’s so far up her arse and I just don’t get it.’

Stefan had heard enough and as Elias got out of the car, Stefan followed after him. ‘Word of advice. Just drop it.’

‘Drop what?’

‘Your petty vendetta against Claire. She’s got the respect of those in high places, not to mention from those who work directly with her, me included. My advice to you is to make the most of the time you’ve got left at Haverbridge.’

Stefan started towards the stairs which led to the flats above the shops, when he felt Elias pull at his shoulder.

‘You’re threatening me?’

‘I don’t need to. Your attitude alone is gonna get you the push.’ Elias was silent but his eyes bore into Stefan’s. ‘Why are you starting something with Claire? That’s what I don’t get.’

‘I’m not. I just can’t seem to find any common ground with her. I don’t know what I’ve got to do or who I have to become to get her to say, “You know what, Crest? You’ve done a good job today.”’

Stefan’s eyes widened with amusement. ‘You’re expecting a pat on the back every time you do something good?’

‘What, you think I don’t deserve her thanks?’

‘Wow, your arrogance knows no bounds, does it?’

Elias dismissed him with a gesture of his hands and started up the stairs. ‘You may like being pussy-whipped by a woman but I don’t.’ Stefan stared at him, face blank. ‘Let’s just see the Larson girl, shall we?’

CHAPTER 8

Daryl Thomas watched from the window of his old beat-up BMW, parked across the road, eyes narrowing as the two men, dressed in suits, moved towards her.

Rachel was sitting in the bus shelter on her usual daytime patch, looking at her mobile phone when the two men approached her. She seemed nervous and he saw her eyes flash across the street in his direction.

It meant one thing.

Trouble.

The black eye he’d given her for lying to him about Nola had started to fade but he could still see it from the car. He’d cursed himself inwardly for damaging her where people could see. This wasn’t out of some new-found sense of sympathy for her, but purely from a business point of view. It might put the punters off.

One of the men stood in front of her, blocking his view.

Daryl lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled, revealing his stale-yellow teeth, and got out of the car. He walked a short way up the road and leaned up against the wall of a house on the edge of the turning towards the main street. He could now see Rachel’s face clearly and she appeared on edge. Her eyes kept darting back and forth towards him and, after a short while, he crushed the cigarette under his foot and crossed the road.

*

‘We could go back to your flat, if that’d make you more comfortable,’ Stefan said, more than aware of the fear in her eyes. ‘We could talk more openly then.’ Rachel shook her head, and when she saw Daryl closing in on them, she sprang from her seat.

‘You need to leave. Now.’

Stefan and Elias exchanged glances. They saw the panic in her eyes. They knew what they needed from her and the sooner she ID’d the body, the better.

‘Look,’ Elias said, ‘I don’t think you understand. We need to talk to you about your friend. It’d be better if we went back to your flat.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said, edging closer. ‘Please, leave now. I’ll call the station later, I promise.’ She gently pushed Elias out of her way, but it was too late.

‘You two paying or not?’ Elias turned to look behind him. ‘If you’re not, just fuck off, yeah? You understand me, boys?’

Elias sneered at the sight of the shabby, dirty-looking man and reached inside his pocket. He showed the man his warrant card.

‘DS Crest, meet Daryl Thomas,’ said Stefan. Daryl’s face turned sour and his eyes narrowed at Elias’s credentials.

‘She’s done nothing wrong, sitting ’ere minding her own business. You got nothing.’ He folded his arms in defiance.

‘Miss Larson isn’t in trouble, Daryl. An associate told us she was here after we got no answer at her flat. We’re here about Nola Grant,’ Stefan said.

Daryl swaggered around Elias to stand beside Rachel. ‘You tell that silly slag to get her skinny arse back round ’ere ’n see me.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Elias said. He saw Stefan shake his head and his jaw set firm as Rachel began to cry.

Daryl saw their faces and edged closer. ‘What you two hiding?’ he said, raising his finger, pointing at both of them. ‘Where is she?’

Stefan ignored him and focused on Rachel. ‘We’d like to talk to you back at your flat. We’ll give you a lift.’

‘Stay out of the fucking car,’ Daryl said, grabbing her roughly by the arm. ‘Whatever you say to her, you can say in front of me.’

‘Careful, Thomas. You don’t want another assault charge under your belt.’

‘Fuck off. I’m just looking out for the lady, aren’t I, Rach?’

‘Shall I add using offensive language to an officer as well?’ Elias asked Stefan. Daryl puffed out his chest and pushed strands of his thinning brown hair out of his eyes.

‘What’s your name again?’ Daryl let go of Rachel’s arm and she rubbed it instinctively through her thick coat. Daryl squared his tall wiry frame up to Elias. Stefan took the opportunity to move Rachel, and helped her into his car.

‘Hey!’ Daryl called out and Stefan used his key fob to lock the automatic doors as Daryl reached for the passenger-door handle.

‘She’ll be fine, Daryl, settle down.’

Elias reached out and gently pushed Daryl back when he tried to round on Stefan.

‘Get your fucking dirty hands off me.’

‘You want to get a new profession, Thomas. Real men don’t beat women.’

‘You wanna fucking have a go, pig?’ He shoved his hand hard into Elias’s chest. ‘What does it matter to you? Plenty of your lot are serviced by my girls.’

Elias’s face dropped. He reached out and grabbed Daryl by the front of his jacket, pulling him forward, until his face was just inches from his own.

‘She’s dead.’

He watched Daryl’s eyes now searching his own. He went to speak, but Elias stopped him, tightening his grip. ‘Nola. Is. Dead.’

Daryl’s face grew serious. ‘You’re lying.’

‘She’s laid out on the slab in the morgue. She’s been murdered, Daryl, and I’ll be coming back to speak with you about it personally. I’ll make sure of it.’

PART TWO

02:58 a.m.

A deep pounding echo. A rush of blood through the ears. Breathing is hard and rapid.

She can see her own feet when looking down with eyes that don’t quite feel like her own. The ground is drenched in melting ice and snow. There are trees, so many trees, skeletal branches and trunks like twisted figures in the grey. Her surroundings are void of colour, entwined in a thickening mist.

Running.

She runs across the woodland floor. She has no shoes, and her feet are turning numb. Her legs are heavy. They can’t keep up with the will of her heart, the pull of her soul.

Her eyes scan the surroundings and everything whips past in a blur. A panoramic view of no way out, no place to hide. Her heart slams harder against her ribcage, fear driving her on.

All she can hear now is the sound of her own breathing, a fearful rush through the depths of her body.

A body too tired to run for much longer.

She sees the path ahead.

A path dense with trees, their roots stretching far and wide. She doesn’t see the twisting, dark root, snaking its way above the earth, and crossing her path. It’s too late now to stop herself.

Her foot is hooked. Her legs pull from under her. She is no more than a rag doll, cast aside. She panics as the ground rushes up to meet her. She can hear a voice as she falls.

She knows she can’t fight any more.

Still the ground rushes towards her. She feels like she is endlessly falling in slow motion, the wind pulling through a mass of blonde tangled hair.

CHAPTER 9

7th November

The first November snow started to fall at exactly 5:31 a.m. Claire knew the time, having been up since 3:00 a.m., unable to sleep after yet another night terror. It was her third that week.

This time she was sure the man with no eyes that haunted her, who she ran from, was some twisted version of her father – Peter.

How long had it been now since they’d spoken?

She couldn’t remember and part of her felt guilty for not caring. Everything that had happened last year he’d brought upon himself, Claire knew that.

I did all I could, she reasoned with herself. Then why do I see the two of them – Father and the Other, whose name I can’t bring myself to speak – in every nightmare?

Sweat cooled against her skin, and she felt the shiver travel up her spine.

It was the morning of Nola Grant’s PM. She’d concentrate on that. It was all that mattered right now, not her broken inner self.

After she wiped the sweat from her face and chest, she headed downstairs. She then sat curled up in the window seat of the bay window in the living room, swathed in a blanket, nose buried in a book.

There was a small lamp dimly lit beside her and the curtains were open, despite it still being dark outside. A cup of coffee that rested beside her had long gone cold and she’d pushed it aside. When the first snowflake had settled on the window, she set aside her book in favour of watching the snow cover her garden in a blanket of white.

She could hear her mother, Iris, get up and start down the stairs, then her feet shuffling in her slippers against the hardwood floor as she entered the kitchen. When she heard the coffee machine whir into life, she sighed to herself, her solitude soon to be broken. She snapped her book shut and stood just as Iris entered the room.

Iris had invited herself to stay with Claire, forcing herself away from her home in Spain. Claire had never been to her mother’s house on the Costa Brava, and didn’t intend to if she could help it.

Since Iris had been divorced, she rarely made the effort to see her only child, and even when Claire had gone through her own messy divorce, Iris practically left her to go it alone.

Knowing how her mother felt about England nowadays meant Claire could relax, safe in the knowledge her mother only made an effort to visit once a year, at a time of her own choosing.

She insisted Claire never take days off to spend time with her while she was here, and was quite content to amuse herself. As long as she stayed in Claire’s house, she’d be happy left to her own devices.

Claire’s father, Peter, had moved to Aberdeen in Scotland, into a warden-controlled complex. It saddened Claire immensely but her decision to sever all ties had been for the best.

The last time they’d spoken had ended with cross words after he’d said some rather nasty things about Iris. Despite knowing her mother had been difficult to live with, Claire was having none of it, and had defended her.

‘It’s snowing,’ Iris said, with some irritation, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her small frame.

‘It’s been forecast for over a week now.’

‘You seem to get snow earlier each year. Bloody global warming.’ She raised her finger at her daughter. ‘You should move out to Spain, love, much warmer climate. Not like England’s changeable weather. It’s bloody tedious.’ Claire rolled her eyes and turned on the television.

Iris paused, watching her closely. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘No. I had a nightmare… Silly really.’

‘Weren’t you supposed to be seeing some doctor about all this?’

Claire shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold. ‘I’m fine.’

Iris’s face softened a little. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault, you know. Everything that went on with that man and that thing, that woman, what she did–’

‘I said I was fine, Mum, really. You talking about it doesn’t help me, it takes me back there, and it’s not somewhere I want to go.’

‘I just think–’

‘Anyway,’ Claire cut in, ‘I’ve got to attend the post mortem of Nola Grant and it’s an early one. I didn’t see much point in staying in bed when I couldn’t sleep.’

She flicked through the channels until she found Sky News. ‘Are you going to be able to amuse yourself today, Mum? I’ll be away until late this evening.’

Iris looked up, frowned but backed down. She sat in a nearby chair and nodded. ‘I’ll be all right. I may pop into town, do some early Christmas shopping.’ She paused to listen to the headlines, then said, ‘Who’s Nola Grant?’

Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘Since when do you take an interest in my work? Thought it depressed you?’

‘Oh, it does,’ she said, now more animated. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask, does it?’ Claire looked at the television screen ahead.

She knew her mother was just making idle small talk, pissed off Claire wouldn’t talk to her about last year. Iris needn’t have felt offended. Claire made it a habit never to discuss it with anyone. It was officially off limits.

The only part of Claire’s life Iris usually showed interest in was either her love life (or lack of) or the house. When her eyes crossed back to her mother’s, she noticed Iris genuinely looked intrigued.

‘Grant was a prostitute. Her body was found dumped in Haverbridge Lon Bonfire Night.’

Iris held up her hands, and shook her head. ‘OK, sorry I asked. It’s far too early for gore. Nasty business.’ There was a long pause. ‘I take it she was murdered?’

Claire stopped and stared at her from the living room door. ‘Some things never change with you, do they, Mum?’

CHAPTER 10

Stefan Fletcher hated standing in on autopsies. It wasn’t because watching the whole process unfold was unpleasant – nobody liked doing it, not even the ones with an iron stomach – but because it made him think about his own life and regrets. Life was fragile. Death could take anyone of any age at any time.

Death didn’t discriminate.

He thought about Nola’s life, cut short having never achieved much. She had no second chances, no time to say her goodbyes. It wasn’t as if death had claimed her after a battle with illness, when she had time to prepare for the inevitable. Death had struck quickly and indiscriminately. There was no coming back. She had no time to lay to rest any past grievances, or right any wrongs.

Life was cruel and the motto “live each day as if it were your last” felt evermore poignant. Today would be no different, and as soon as he saw the naked body of Nola Grant laid out on the slab in Haverbridge Hospital’s morgue he suppressed the urge to walk out.

He stood alongside Claire, dressed in protective clothing, masks over their mouths. Danika had come to escort them from reception and down to the mortuary. She was one of the good guys: respected, intelligent and one of the best Claire had ever worked with by a long shot.

She didn’t hold grudges and Claire sometimes wished she could be more like her in that respect. Claire could take a grudge and bury it deep inside her, but it never went away. If you wronged her, she’d take the hurt it caused her to the grave.

Danika appeared as normal: hair tied back, face and body clear of make-up and jewellery. The mortuary technician, Paul Farringdon, had already helped her photograph and swab the body in the external examination and now stood patiently beside the body, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

‘While we waited for you,’ Danika said, turning to address Claire and Stefan head on, ‘the body was photographed, samples taken from under the fingernails, and surface traces of debris collected from her body and hair. Despite being in the water, we still managed to collect some samples.

‘We also used the ultraviolet light. Mainly to check for any signs of sexual activity, which came up negative for any traces of semen externally, but since she was in the water, this could have easily washed away or been contaminated. I will check internally for any signs of trauma, but so far, I’m not convinced she was raped. I know some people have already been speculating,’ she said, casting a sly look at Paul before continuing. ‘She does have some minimal bruising around the groin, but given her choice of job, it’s to be expected.’

‘Some men like it rough,’ Paul said.

Stefan smirked.

Claire’s face was stony.

Danika visibly shuddered. ‘Yes, thank you for that.’

‘OK,’ Claire cut in, ‘let’s assume the bruising is old until you check internally.’

‘It’s not old,’ Danika said. ‘It’s recent, but could have been caused before she was taken off the street by the killer.’

Claire wrinkled her nose. She hated cases involving rape even more than murder, no matter how vicious it was. She moved Danika’s attention on.

‘Anything else?’

Danika nodded and pointed to Nola’s body. ‘External examination shows she put up some resistance, but she was restrained by the wrists. Handcuffs maybe,’ she said, pointing to the bruising around each wrist.

‘This obviously restricted her ability to effectively fend off whoever did this. You already know she was found weighted down by that heavy chain, and there are marks around her ankles which are consistent with her being bound, but not by the chain.’ She pointed to the dark-coloured bruises around Nola’s ankles. ‘I believe the chain was added afterwards.’

Claire lowered her head for a closer look. ‘How’d you know that?’

‘The width of the chain. The links themselves are much thicker than the marks around her ankles, which means it was added afterwards.’

‘To make sure she stayed at the bottom of the water,’ Stefan said.

Danika nodded again. ‘Yes, and for a while, she would have done. But whatever was used to bind her before death was much thinner.’

Claire’s eyes wandered back to Nola’s skin and her eyes narrowed. ‘These ligature marks,’ she said, pointing so Stefan could have a look, but directing her question to Danika. ‘The surface is uneven.’

‘Yes, well spotted. I think her ankles supported her weight at some point, when she was tied up. It looks as though she was suspended.’

Stefan looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘Ready for the kill?’ Claire offered.

Danika nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a reasonable assumption.’

‘But she could’ve been dragged by her feet, couldn’t she? That would also leave the same uneven marks.’

‘You’re right, but then I would expect to see scratch marks up her body: back, legs, hips, arms,’ she said, trailing off. ‘Although her skin had begun to deteriorate in the water, I can still see there’s nothing consistent with her being dragged. The only other cuts and bruises that she does have are on the face, along with the defence wounds.

‘I also inspected her mouth and found some abrasions to the tongue, not to dissimilar to razor blade cuts, small little nicks in the flesh.’

‘Did she do it herself inadvertently with her teeth? Maybe when she struggled?’ Stefan asked.

‘These cuts are too perfect. I’m guessing someone else inflicted those wounds. The cuts are neat and identical. The cut on the right side of the tongue is an exact mirror-image to the cut on the left. They are the same length and depth.’

‘The cuts were inflicted at the same time,’ Claire said.

‘Yes, with something sharp, placed either side of the tongue.’ Danika paused for breath. ‘Cause of death was through exsanguination, I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it. Once I’ve performed the internal and had a toxicology report I’ll be…’ She cut her sentence short and paused, staring at the wound at the side of Nola’s neck. She shook her head.

Claire exchanged a look with Stefan. ‘Something wrong?’

Danika looked up. ‘I don’t know really. I mean, the killer could have got lucky, I suppose.’

‘Lucky?’

Danika pointed to the wound. ‘The killer only made one incision, cutting in just behind the point of the jaw. This severed a jugular, carotid artery, and trachea, in one fluid, forward motion.’

She looked up at them to emphasise her point. ‘There are no other attempts made, no hesitation marks. This person got it right first time and with a very sharp instrument.’

‘Is that really so unusual?’ Stefan said.

‘Inspector, this method of dispatch takes practice. Cutting like this is generally seen in something like animal slaughter. When it’s performed correctly, blood flows freely, draining the body. Death occurs in a very short space of time. We’re talking seconds here – not hours – for her to bleed to death.’

‘It’s almost like a mercy killing, then. Is that what you’re saying?’ Claire asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Nola’s throat.

Danika shook her head and looked pained as she said, ‘I’d hardly call it a “mercy” killing. The killer stuck her like a pig.’ Claire held up her hand for her to calm down.

‘You know what I meant. You could view it as a more humane way of killing her, rather than prolonging her agony. This was quick. You say this would take some skill to perform, so maybe the person we’re looking for is well educated or trained?’

She looked at Danika, expectantly.

‘It’s cruel, that’s what it is.’

There was a long silence between them. Paul, who had remained quiet throughout, could only look down at the floor. When he risked a glance at Danika again, he saw her body visibly harden once more.

This was her job: to examine and find the causes, find the facts. She knew it was fruitless to become emotionally involved. Normally she was good at keeping her personal emotions buried inside her. Why Nola Grant was any different, she didn’t know and couldn’t understand. She seemed to shake off her personal feelings as quickly as they’d arrived.

‘If this was someone’s definition of mercy, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.’

CHAPTER 11

Paul carefully placed the body block under Nola’s back, allowing her chest to arch up, her arms and neck falling back against the cold autopsy table. Stefan looked away as the wound at her neck briefly opened wider, reminding him of a mouth opening, puckering and shutting again.

Danika committed a few details to tape before making her first incisions with her scalpel. She cut the large Y shape into Nola’s torso and with the help of Paul, cut through and removed the sternum and ribs as one whole breastplate. After removing and taking further samples from the other main organs, Danika was ready to remove and open the stomach.

She carefully sliced into the tissue and inspected the contents. Stefan looked away, and swallowed hard. He saw Claire eye him with curiosity, and he looked sheepish.

‘I should’ve skipped breakfast.’

Claire gave a wry smile.

‘She’d eaten recently before she died, her stomach is fairly full,’ Danika said, raising her eyes to them. ‘I can tell more once I’ve looked at the intestinal contents, but I’d hazard a guess she’d eaten not much more than an hour before she was killed.’

‘Are we any closer to a time of death?’ Claire said.

Danika frowned.

‘Roughly?’

‘She’s been in extremely cold water. The bacterial process that causes the body to bloat is slowed. The cold would also have encouraged the formation of adipocere, which slows decomposition.’

‘Which means?’

‘A substance formed from fat in the body helps to protect it. I need more time.’ She studied Stefan’s face. ‘Inspector, if you need a time out, I’m sure DCI Winters won’t mind. You don’t need to be present. My full report will be ready within the next day or so.’

Exchanging glances with Claire, he nodded, reaching for the door.

‘Wait, I’ll come back with you,’ Claire said. ‘Save you the extra journey in the snow. I think I’ve seen all I need to here.’ She gestured to Danika and Paul. ‘I’ll leave you to it and wait for the report.’

*

As soon as Stefan reached the pool car, his foot slid on the ice, the bottom of his trouser legs dipping into the snow. He cursed as he brushed the fabric clean, but his ankles instantly felt cold.

‘I hate this weather,’ he said, climbing into the passenger seat beside Claire.

She grinned as she pulled off over the forecourt, towards the exit. ‘Did you get anything else from the boys at the firework display?’

His eyes remained focused on the road ahead. ‘Harry’s parents didn’t seem too bothered about what happened.’

‘Figured as much.’

‘Well, you should’ve heard his mother. She made sure she pointed out that if her beloved son hadn’t been messing around on the ice in the first place, we wouldn’t have found the body for weeks. Essentially trying to justify that it’s a good thing her son’s a little shit.’

He turned to face her. ‘I know Melissa and I have had our differences but we’ve kept it friendly for the kids’ sake. God forbid my babies turn out like that Harry.’

Claire glanced over his face.

This had been the second time in months he had mentioned his ex-girlfriend in relation to their children. Although in his mid-thirties, Stefan looked too baby-faced to have one kid, let alone two. He had been with Melissa since meeting her at university and shortly after he’d joined the police she’d quickly fallen pregnant with their son, Phoenix, now aged ten.

It’d been a happy five years for him and Melissa, watching Phoenix grow before they decided to try for another baby. Soon they were blessed with Melody, now aged five, to make their little family complete. It had been over a year since Stefan and Melissa had separated but Stefan was right – they had kept it amicable, despite a difficult break-up.

Claire knew better than to question him about it. He kept his private life out of sight as much as possible. She decided to ask how the kids were, and kept Melissa’s name out of the conversation as much as possible on the short drive back to the station.

*

Paul leaned over Danika’s shoulder to get a better view, as if he didn’t believe what she’d found. She was hunched over, which made it hard for him to see anything other than a little blood on her gloved hands.

‘You can’t be serious?’ he said, moving round the table to get a better view.

‘Look for yourself. Tell me I’ve made a mistake.’

There was no chance of that.

He looked into her dark eyes and frowned, before nervously risking a glance at her findings. When he saw what lay in front of her, he sighed and looked away, his eyes sad. ‘I wish I could tell you I’m wrong,’ she said. ‘The poor girl.’

‘Maybe the killer didn’t know. She wasn’t showing at all.’

‘You think it would’ve made a difference if he did know?’

Paul shrugged, leaning back against the counter, arms folded.

‘I don’t know, I’m not a murderer. Who knows what goes on in some psycho’s head?’ He studied her face and guessed what she was thinking. ‘I know I’m just the assistant, and please, don’t think I’m trying to tell you how to do your job, but I don’t think this is something that should wait until the report. You should inform DCI Winters. Now.’

Danika looked back at her hands and shut her eyes tight. After a long pause, she nodded.

CHAPTER 12

The incident room was large, busy and noisy. Phones were ringing and people were rushing around. There was a flat-screen monitor on a podium, and an image of Nola Grant flickered across the LCD screen.

There were several workstations in the four corners of the room, divided up into areas for detective constables, sergeants and inspectors. In the centre was another workstation, lined with computers and with staff trawling through CCTV footage.

There were more pictures of Nola Grant on the boards along the main wall, together with ‘before’ shots that Rachel Larson had given Stefan the day before and shots from when Nola’s body was found. There was a list of known associates written beside the board and a pile of statements ready to be typed up, read and cross-referenced.

Claire wasted no time pulling everyone together for a briefing to give them the information they had so far from the post mortem and the details of the voicemail message left on Rachel Larson’s phone. After she’d finished, she opened the briefing up for contribution.

‘I want to start putting together a rough character profile on the killer,’ she said, her eyes sweeping the room. ‘I know profiles can hinder a case if we don’t think outside the box, but I think we need to start with some basics.

‘The killer is almost certainly a man. If the motive was sexual in nature, perhaps the killer has had a bad relationship with women all his life. Nola was a prostitute, so maybe a client asked for something she wasn’t willing to give.’

Detective Constable Gabriel Harper stepped in. ‘Do we think it could’ve been an accident and the killer panicked?’

Claire shook her head. ‘It wasn’t an accident. The effort was made to dump her body and weight her down. There’s an amount of foresight and planning.’

‘Textbook stuff then?’ said Matthews.

‘If it were a crime committed in the heat of the moment then the killer would most likely have left her where she fell, whether it be sexually orientated or otherwise,’ Claire said. ‘But this appears to be cold, calculated.’ She paused. ‘It’s significant that she was naked. She was a target.’

‘And that makes you restless?’ Stefan said.

Claire stared at him. ‘Everything about it makes me restless. Aren’t you?’

Stefan shook his head and placed his coffee on a table in front of him. ‘No. I think it may be a one-off. We’ve had prostitutes turn up dead before.’

‘But not like this… Dead in an alley, yes. Dead in some crack den, or dead at the hands of a pimp, yes, but not dumped in a lake. Not the way she was found.’

The room fell silent. Outside it was snowing again, white flakes hitting the window in the strong wind.

‘The warden at the parkland said the lake started to freeze on the first and was completely frozen over by the morning of the fifth. He’s going to provide us with the CCTV footage from his Portakabin,’ Claire said.

Matthews then jumped in, standing up to address the team. He scratched the back of his head as he read from a sheet of paper in his other hand.

‘Uniform has conducted a house-to-house in the area where Nola was believed to have been seen last and from the houses around the lake. DC Harper will be leading another round of interviews, with DC Roberts.’ He looked up at Claire, who was leaning up against a table opposite him, arms folded. She nodded for him to continue.

‘I’ve got more CCTV footage to start trawling through from the town centre and from the shops below Grant’s flat. The chippy and newsagent both have cameras inside and outside their premises, but I also found this an hour ago,’ he said.

He held up a grainy black-and-white 10x8 shot of part of the town centre. A date and time were stamped across the bottom and judging by the angle and neon sign, it was taken from a CCTV camera opposite a McDonald’s.

The last time Nola Grant was seen alive.

The street was virtually empty with only four people, grainy shadows almost, in the frame. There were more people in the McDonald’s itself, but all Claire could see at that angle was the bottom of their legs through the glass window.

There was a car parked outside but the number plate was obscured and the picture was of such bad quality, she couldn’t correctly identify the make and colour, or anything else.

‘What am I meant to be looking at, Matthews?’

He grinned. She’d studied the photo briefly and missed what had caught his eye instantly.

‘This guy here,’ he said. She followed his finger across the photograph and squinted. Matthews then circled a few copies amongst the team. They stared at the photograph.

Leaning up against the wall of the McDonald’s, which led down a side alley, was a black smudge, which, after closer inspection, they all recognised as a man.

‘Can you tell me who he is?’ Claire said.

Matthews shook his head.

‘No name, but he was noticed by two witnesses, employees at that McDonald’s. They say they saw him hanging around Nola in the week leading up to her disappearance. Nola was a regular in there, the two guys knew her. They said the last time they saw her was when she got into a car the night she went missing, and this guy,’ he said, pointing at the figure again, ‘ran after the vehicle, before giving up and getting in his car… Which happens to be this one here.’

He pointed to the parked car in the photo, the one with the obscured plate.

‘Here are their statements,’ he added, handing them across to Claire. ‘I know what you’re going to ask and the answer is no.’ He leaned back against his desk. ‘They can’t remember the make, model, colour or even a partial plate number of the man’s car… or a decent description of the man, except that he wore a black-and-red checked hooded jacket with a baseball cap. Usually with the jacket hood pulled up over the cap, obscuring his face.’

Claire eyed him carefully then looked back at the man in the photo.

‘Let me get this straight… Two people both notice a man tailing Nola. Notice enough to know a man chased after a car she got into on the last night she’s seen alive, but neither of them have any real description of this man’s face, height, colour? Nothing on his vehicle?’

Matthews shrugged. ‘They serve a lot of customers, and they said they didn’t think it relevant. Apparently it’s not the first time Nola’s had admirers. Maccy D’s is very busy, Claire, sea of faces and all that. Fast food, fast paced. Their story sounds credible.’

‘What about the other car, the one she got into?’

‘We picked it up on CCTV on the first of November, same spot.’ Matthews turned towards Detective Constable Jane Cleaver. ‘Jane?’

Everybody turned to face Jane as she spoke.

‘The last car Nola got into was a silver E-Class Mercedes, registered to forty-five-year-old Kenneth Philips, of 92 Magenta Drive, Stevenage.’

Jane accessed the CCTV footage and resumed playback. The LCD screen at the front of the room changed to show grainy footage, taken across the street from the McDonald’s.

Everyone watched the mystery man from the photograph Matthews had shown them. He was looking at Nola from the side of the McDonald’s, before running across the road after a car as it pulled off. The footage offered no further help in terms of a description of the man.

They watched him go to his parked car, sitting almost out of the shot, and hoped that as he drove off, they could pull a plate from the grainy footage.

Claire spoke first. ‘Could anyone make that out?’

Everyone muttered a negative.

Stefan shook his head. ‘Footage is too grainy, lighting’s bad. I think I could make out an R and maybe a five and even that I wouldn’t swear to. I’ll get image enhancement to have a look at it.’

Claire jabbed a finger towards the screen. ‘I want the other cameras in the area checked. Find this man’s car. Get me a number plate, if he’s not using fake ones. Which direction does he head in? Find him.’

She looked back at Jane. ‘Does this Kenneth Philips have any previous convictions?’

‘One speeding conviction last year and a history of unpaid parking tickets.’

‘Kenny came in voluntarily this morning,’ said Harper, ‘although he seemed more concerned that his wife would find out about his night-time activities than the fact he was the last person to see Grant before she was murdered.’

There were a few raised smiles and knowing glances.

‘Aren’t they always,’ Claire said. ‘Carry on, Harper.’

‘Kenny picked Nola up and took her down the side street next to the Wickes warehouse in Haverbridge industrial area. After about an hour in his back seat, he dropped her off.’

‘You showed him the shots of the man chasing his car? Did he say if Nola recognised him?’

Harper shook his head. ‘Apparently Grant barely looked at the guy. She told Kenny she had no idea who he was. It was then that Kenny started worrying about the fact this could make the papers, then his wife would know what he’d done. He said he should’ve forgotten the whole thing and dropped her off when he’d had the chance.’

‘Did he provide a description of the man?’ Stefan asked.

Harper shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said, passing the statement to Claire.

She read over it as Harper continued. ‘He says he was looking through his wing mirror so he didn’t see a great deal. It was dark and raining. He gave the same description as what we’ve seen in the footage.’

‘He thinks he could be about five-eight, average build, but he was wearing a thick coat, so he could’ve been thinner,’ Claire said, skimming over the statement. ‘Mr-fucking-average. He’s like any other man on the street.’

She turned to Matthews.

‘Matthews, check the CCTV footage in Haverbridge industrial area, concentrating on the Wickes warehouse and Turner Street. That’s where Kenny says he dropped her off.’

‘Yes, Guv, but I don’t think there’s any cameras down Turner Street.’

‘You’ll be able to pick him up around that area.’ She looked back at the photograph of the shadowy figure. ‘If he is our man, he’s taking risks, being sloppy, out in the open like this… Have this circulated to the local press. See if we can’t draw in any more eye witnesses. Right now he’s a person of interest.’

‘First mention of Nola’s death has already gone to the local news,’ said Matthews.

Claire handed him back the photograph. ‘They’ll print that photo. It may, if we’re lucky, flush out our man sooner rather than later. If he has anything else planned, he’ll change his plans accordingly if he thinks his time is running out.’

She paused a moment. ‘That car and the van on the other side of the street that are parked up, see if we can get clear shots of the number plates. Who owns them? Someone must remember something.

‘I want someone to speak to the two employees at McDonald’s again, push them harder this time.’ She paused as she looked around the room. ‘I also think we need to look at cold case.’

A few murmurs sounded around the room, nobody really relishing the thought of being assigned the task.

‘It’s just a thought,’ Claire said, trying to quiet their discord, ‘especially if we think the killer planned Nola’s murder… Matthews, can you organise it, see if we have any unsolved murders like this one. Look for similar MO and social class of victim. Nola Grant was a prostitute. It may be the reason she was chosen.’

She looked around the room and pointed at DC Richard Lloyd. ‘Lloyd, I want you to assist DI Matthews.’

While Claire was talking, Stefan was watching Elias from the far side of the room. He didn’t miss the look Elias gave Claire as she spoke. When she paused for breath, Elias raised his hand. Claire gave him a sideways glance.

‘Crest?’

‘I’d assume that cold case is a waste of time.’

Claire paused, giving him the once over. ‘I need to be sure we don’t overlook something that could be waiting to be found in the old files.’

‘You can’t be sure Grant isn’t just the first and last victim.’

‘And you can’t be sure she is, Crest.’

She pushed herself off the table and walked over to him. ‘The killer may have done this before, and his MO might have changed. If he made any errors, our man may strike again and correct what went wrong the first time. She may not be the only victim. She may be part of something bigger.’

‘It’s a novice, not a pro,’ Crest said, and looked away from her with contempt. ‘If the man from the CCTV footage is the killer, he might as well have had a neon sign over his head.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re just not seeing it.’

This stirred a few murmurs from the rest of the team. Those who had worked with Claire previously had seen colleagues like Elias challenge her before, and knew he was skating on thin ice.

They knew it wasn’t so much the content of what he was saying. It was a reasonable assumption that Grant’s murder was a one-off and she’d died by the hands of a first-timer, but it was more the way in which he was behaving and speaking to Claire that niggled.

She leaned back against the table opposite Elias’s desk and her eyes bore into his. ‘Perhaps you can tell me who I should be looking for, Sergeant, since you seem to have a wealth of experience that rivals my own?’

Elias leaned back in his chair, wanting to distance himself from her as much as possible. ‘Daryl Thomas might be a good place to start.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard you had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.’

‘He’s got priors for assault. We know he’s smashed up his girls before… What’s to stop him making that final leap?’

‘Daryl’s a nasty piece of work, Crest, I’ll give you that, but he’s not a murderer.’

Elias took in her face for a moment before he spoke again. This time he lowered his voice and tapped his pen on the desk in front of him, as if driving the point home.

‘He’s stupid. He’s stupid and careless enough to rouse suspicion, and it’d be presumptuous of us not to question him, even if it is to merely cross him off our list.’

‘The killer’s not stupid. He managed to kill Nola Grant with one expert cut of his knife,’ Stefan said, coming to Claire’s aid.

The last sentence hung heavy in the air. A few nodded their heads in agreement with Stefan. Claire saw the eyes around the room watching her carefully and when her gaze fell back to Elias, she saw the twitch in his mouth. It was a silent “fuck you” and it made her blood boil.

‘Can I speak with you privately?’ Elias said.

She met his stare and gave a sharp nod. ‘When we’re done here and I’ve seen DI Fletcher. Now,’ she said, looking to Matthews. ‘I want a Family Liaison Officer assigned to Rachel Larson. See if they can find out any more information that might shed light on the last few days before Nola disappeared.

‘I want the CCTV footage processed ASAP. Statements on HOLMES, any inconsistencies I want flagged and followed up.’

The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES), developed in the 1980s, held all the information gathered for the investigation, consisting of evidence, such as statements, to intelligence. It made it far less likely that the investigation could succumb to human error and made sure any coincidences or inconsistencies were flagged up.

Claire had a real fixation about it and made sure it was always referred to and scrutinised for a possible hole, link or lead in any case.

She looked at Elias, who sat staring at his desk, avoiding her gaze. ‘Crest, I want you to gather intelligence on Grant’s and Larson’s mobile phone records for the last few weeks, and get a location where Grant’s phone was when the voicemail was left on Larson’s phone.’

‘Whatever you say,’ he said in a flat voice without looking up at her.

She glared at him, but took a deep breath, pushing her anger down inside her, right to the pit of her stomach.

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