Blood Axe E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DS Ian Peterson Murder Investigation
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 421

Beschreibung

The Third DI Ian Peterson Novel ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Unusual, fast paced and gripping' Amazon Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'A thoroughly absorbing murder mystery' Amazon Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Totally gripping' Amazon Reviewer 'Silently dipping his oars in the water he made his escape. It was a weary journey, with few spoils to show for it. Next time he would do better. He looked back over his shoulder. The bridge had disappeared,swallowed up by the darkness. From its walkway he too had become invisible. Only the bloody body of a woman showed he had been roaming the streets that night'. DI Ian Peterson investigates a series of gruesome and brutal murders in York. As the body count mounts, the case demands all Ian's ingenuity, because these are murders seemingly committed at random, and this is a killer who leaves no clues...

Leseprobe

BLOOD AXE

Cut Short – CWA Dagger shortlist, #1 iTunes, #1 Women Sleuths Road Closed – #1 Women Sleuths, Top 20 kindle, Top Read Euro Crime, Top 50 iTunes Dead End – #1 Women Sleuths, Top 20 kindle, Top 20 WH Smith’s, Top 10 Miami Examiner Death Bed – #1 Women Sleuths, Top 20 WH Smith’s Stop Dead – #1 on Amazon Kindle DI Geraldine Steel is a Lovereading Great Female Sleuth

‘Silently dipping his oars in the water he made his escape. It was a weary journey, with few spoils to show for it. Next time he would do better. He looked back over his shoulder. The bridge had disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. From its walkway he too had become invisible. Only the bloody body of a woman showed he had been roaming the streets that night’

DI Ian Peterson investigates a series of gruesome and brutal murders in York. As the body count mounts, the case demands all Ian’s ingenuity, because these are murders seemingly committed at random, and this is a killer who leaves no clues.

About the Author

Leigh Russell studied at the University of Kent, gaining a Master’s degree in English. A secondary school English teacher, and guest university lecturer in creative writing, she is married, has two daughters, and lives in North West London. Her first novel, shortlisted for the CWA best first novel award, Cut Short, was published in 2009. This was followed by Road Closed in 2010, Dead End in 2011, Death Bed in 2012 and Stop Dead in 2013 and Fatal Act in 2014. Her first title in the new series starring DI Peterson, Cold Sacrifice was also published in 2013 followed by Race to Death and Killer Plan in 2014.

Critical Acclaim

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORRACE TO DEATH

‘Unmissable’–Lee Child

‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural’ –Marcel Berlins,Times

‘As tense openings go, they don’t come much better than this’ –Bookbag

‘If you enjoy a well-written mystery with a well-constructed and thought-out plot line then this is the book for you... it is my BOOK OF THE MONTH’ –Crime Book Club

‘the story unfolds at a great pace and grips until the end’–Fiction Is Stranger Than Fact

‘Leigh Russell weaves a fascinating tale that had me completely foxed. Whilst the mystery is tantalising the characters also fascinate, so clearly are they drawn’–Mystery People

‘Fast-paced and unrelenting, and with more than enough twists to keep the most demanding reader entertained,Race to Deathcertainly doesn’t disappoint! 4.5/5*’–Claire Loves to Read

‘Full of twists, turns and dark secrets. The plot gallops along creating suspense on every page’–Creuse News

‘Fantastic... I can’t wait to read more’–Book Addict

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORCOLD SACRIFICE

‘A complex mystery rich in characters, this new series promises some interesting times ahead for Ian Peterson’ –Promoting Crime Fiction

‘Russell’s story telling was strong enough to keep me enticed right to the very end’–Lloyd Paige

‘Ian Peterson as a character could potentially be just as good,if not better, than Geraldine Steel’–Best Crime Books

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORFATAL ACT

‘a most intriguing and well executed mystery and... an engrossing read’–Shotsmag

‘the best yet from Leigh Russell – she keeps you guessing all the way through and leaves you wanting more’ –Crime Book Club

‘fantastic. I can’t wait to read more’ –Book Addict

‘another fast-paced and complex mystery – a fabulous read’–Fiction Is Stranger Than Fact

‘a truly great author... enough mystery and drama for the most ardent of mystery fans’–Bookaholic

‘another corker of a book from Leigh Russell... Russell’s talent for writing top-quality crime fiction just keeps on growing...’ –Euro Crime

‘the plot is strong and the writing just flows with style and panache’–Goodreads

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORSTOP DEAD

‘All the things a mystery should be, intriguing, enthralling, tense and utterly absorbing’ –Best Crime Books

‘Stop Deadis taut and compelling, stylishly written with a deeply human voice’–Peter James

‘A definite must read for crime thriller fans everywhere – 5 stars’–Newbooks Magazine

‘For lovers of crime fiction this is a brilliant, not to be missed, novel’–Fiction is Stranger Than Fact

‘Geraldine Steel sticks out as a believable copper andStop Deadflows easily’–Electric Lullaby

‘a well-written, a well-researched, and a well-constructed whodunnit. Highly recommended’– Mystery People

‘a whodunnit of the highest order. The tightly written plot kept me guessing all the way’–Crimesquad

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORDEATH BED

‘Earlier books have marked her out as one of the most able practitioners in the current field’ –Barry Forshaw,Crime Time

‘Death Bedis a marvellous entry in this highly acclaimed series’–Promoting Crime Fiction

‘An innovative and refreshing take on the psychological thriller’ –Books Plus Food

‘Russell’s strength as a writer is her ability to portray believable characters’–Crimesquad

‘A well-written, well-plotted crime novel with fantastic pace and lots of intrigue’–Bookersatz

‘Truly a great crime thriller’ –Nayu’s Reading Corner

‘DEATH BEDis her most exciting and well-written to date. And, as the others are superb, that is really saying something! 5*’ –Euro Crime

‘The story itself was as usual a good one, and the descriptive gruesomeness of some scenes was brilliant’ –Best Crime Books

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORDEAD END

‘All the ingredients combine to make a tense, clever police whodunnit’–Marcel Berlins,Times

‘I could not put this book down’ –Newbooks Magazine

‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’ –Jeffery Deaver

‘An encounter that will take readers into the darkest recesses of the human psyche’–Crime Time

‘Well written and chock full of surprises, this hard-hitting, edge-of-the seat instalment is yet another treat... Geraldine Steel looks set to become a household name. Highly recommended’–Euro Crime

‘Good, old-fashioned, heart-hammering police thriller... a no-frills delivery of pure excitement’ –SAGA Magazine

‘the critical acclaim heaped on Russell thus far in her literary career is well deserved’–Bookgeeks

‘a macabre read, full of enthralling characters and gruesome details which kept me glued from first page to last’ –Crimesquad

‘Dead Endwas selected as a Best Fiction Book of 2012’ –Examiner

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORROAD CLOSED

‘A well-written, soundly plotted, psychologically acute story’–Marcel Berlins

‘Well-written and absorbing right from the get-go... with an exhilarating climax that you don’t see coming’ –Euro Crime

‘Leigh Russell does a good job of keeping her readers guessing. She also uses a deft hand developing her characters, especially the low-lifes... a good read’–San Francisco Book Review

‘perfect character building... cleverly written... can’t wait for the next one’–Best Books to Read

‘New star of crime fiction, Leigh Russell’s chilling psychological thriller is terrific and terrifying!’ –Clem Chambers

‘Road Closedis a gripping, fast-paced read, pulling you in from the very first tense page and keeping you captivated right to the end with its refreshingly compelling and original narrative’ –New York Journal of Books

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORCUT SHORT

‘Cut Shortis a stylish, top-of-the-line crime tale, a seamless blending of psychological sophistication and gritty police procedure. And you’re just plain going to love DI Geraldine Steel’ –Jeffery Deaver

‘Russell paints a careful and intriguing portrait of a small British community while developing a compassionate and complex heroine who’s sure to win fans’–Publishers Weekly

‘an excellent debut’ –Crime Time

‘It’s an easy read with the strength of the story at its core... If you want to be swept along with the story above all else,Cut Shortis certainly a novel for you’–Crimeficreader

‘Simply awesome! This debut novel by Leigh Russell will take your breath away’–Euro Crime

‘an excellent book...Truly a great start for new mystery author Leigh Russell’–New York Journal of Books

Cut Shortis a book I had to read in one sitting... excellent new series’–Murder by Type

‘a sure-fire hit – a taut, slick, easy-to-read thriller’ –Watford Observer

‘fine police procedural, with a convincing if disconcerting feel of contemporary Britain’ –The Compulsive Reader

‘Cut Shortfeatured in one of Euro Crime’s reviewers’ Top Reads for 2009’–Euro Crime

‘Cut Shortis not a comfortable read, but it is a compelling and important one. Highly recommended’ –Mystery Women

‘gritty and totally addictive debut novel’ –New York Journal of Books

To Michael, Joanna, Phillipa and Phil

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his expert medical advice, and all my contacts on the Metropolitan Police for their invaluable assistance.

I would also like to thank the inimitable Annette Crossland for her loyal support.

Producing a book is a team effort. I am fortunate to have the guidance of a brilliant editor, Keshini Naidoo, and I am very grateful to Ion Mills and Claire Watts, along with all the dedicated team at No Exit Press, who transform my words into books.

My final thanks go to Michael, who is always with me.

Glossary of acronyms

DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI – Detective Inspector

DS – Detective Sergeant

SOCO – scene of crime officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

PM – Post Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

CCTV – Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

VIIDO – Visual Images Identifications and Detections Office

1

The warrior sprang on to dry land, shoulder muscles straining as he heaved his narrow vessel against the current. The river flowed darkly beneath the railway bridge. Grunting, he hauled his boat along to the narrow steps that led up a steep slope to the path. Under cover of night it wasn’t easy to see the boat lying at the foot of the slope. Bent almost double, he trotted halfway up the steps and looked both ways along the path. Satisfied there was no one in sight he hurried back down the steps, hauled his boat up them and dragged it swiftly over the tract of muddy grass and across the path to a gap in the wall. With an effort he heaved his boat upwards, manoeuvring it right over the top of the wall. Clinging to a rope attached to the boat, he lowered it swiftly to the ground on the other side. Forcing his way through a gap in the wall he made sure the boat was settled in a wide ditch, before pushing his way back through the gap to the path.

Turning, half crouching, he padded towards a nearby settlement. It was a mixed blessing when the moon god lit up the path in front of him. He did not want to be seen as he stole along the deserted river bank. Up ahead, a bridge spanned the dark waters, illuminated at intervals by street lights that cast an orange glow. Even at that late hour a steady succession of cars was gliding across the bridge. He hadn’t expected the roads to be so busy at that time of night. He didn’t want a confrontation. He could fight with the strength of a bear, but he was alone. A distant humming barely disturbed the quiet of the night as he ran up the steps and on to the bridge. Crossing it, he slipped over the road and up a side street. He rounded a bend and a figure appeared in front of him, only a few feet away. From behind it was impossible to tell whether he was following a man or a woman. It made no difference. If the stranger was armed, a strong woman could be nearly as dangerous as a man. What mattered was to take his target by surprise.

Wolf-like, the warrior ran forward, his leather shoes pounding silently on the hard ground. There was no room to wield a long sword. Having touched his silver amulet for protection, he gripped his axe with both hands and raised it. He had won the axe in battle and had been biding his time ever since, eager to try it out. Now it was about to claim its first trophy. At the last minute his victim looked round. He saw her eyes widen in terror, her lips parting as though to scream. With one blow of his axe he felled her, leaping aside to avoid her spurting blood. She sank to the ground with barely a murmur.

The woman lay at his feet, a pool of blood spreading from a deep gash in her skull. The light overhead illuminated her face and he saw that she was young. There was no time to waste in regret that he had killed her before considering taking her as a thrall. She was beyond his clutches now, already on her journey to the frozen wasteland. Deftly he set to work. Guided by the moon god, he wiped his blade on a piece of her tunic that wasn’t drenched in blood. He removed her silver necklace and pulled three gold rings from her hands. They slipped easily from her wet fingers. Dropping them into his pouch he ran on, keeping to the shadows.

After such a kill, the area was dangerous. Once the woman’s body was discovered, her people would come looking for him. Until then, the streets were his hunting ground. So far he hadn’t found much, just a few trinkets that weighed hardly anything. After all his effort, he had to do better than that. All at once he stopped in his tracks to gaze at a glittering display of precious metalwork, rings and gems, and delicate decorative chains, all skilfully wrought. Trembling with desire, he forced himself to walk past. It wasn’t safe to steal such a rich hoard openly in the busy street. People were hurrying by singly or in small rowdy groups. Most of them took no notice of him, but one or two threw curious glances in his direction. With his bloody axe at his side, it was best not to loiter. He spun round and made his way back across the bridge and down to the river. All he had to show for his efforts were a few gold rings and a fine silver chain. He remembered the woman he had killed, and cursed her. If she hadn’t appeared in front of him at just that moment, his pouch might have been stuffed with treasure now. The gods had not favoured him that night, but he had no one to blame but himself.

He reached the river and hurried along the path. Dragging his boat from its hiding place behind the wall, he carried it back down to the water and leaped aboard. Silently dipping his oars in the water he made his escape. It was a weary journey, with few spoils to show for it. Next time he would do better. He looked back over his shoulder. The bridge had disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. From its walkway he too had become invisible. Only the bloody body of a woman showed he had been roaming the streets that night.

2

Ian Peterson woke early. His wife was asleep so he went to work straight away, without stopping for coffee before leaving home. Driving to the police station before most people were stirring, he made the short journey in record time. His office was small, but he had it all to himself. That was just one of the many advantages of his recent promotion to detective inspector, another being that he no longer lived anywhere near his in-laws. He cleared his desk before going to the canteen for breakfast. Detective Sergeant Ted Birling was already there, one hand wrapped round a mug of coffee. With black hair and dark eyes, his air of brash confidence made him appear older than his mid-twenties. The sergeant looked up and greeted Ian with a smile as he sat down. Nodding an acknowledgement, Ian tucked into a plate of egg, beans and sausages.

‘Wife not feeding you?’

Ian grinned in reply and they sat in companionable silence until he finished.

‘Had a good weekend?’ Ian asked, putting his knife and fork down.

Ted shrugged. ‘Jenny wanted to go to see this new film everyone’s been talking about.’ He mentioned a name Ian vaguely recognised.

‘Was it any good?’

‘It was a load of shite, but she enjoyed it.’

‘That’s all right then.’

They exchanged a resigned smile.

‘How about you? Good weekend?’

Ian shrugged. ‘We had tickets for the last night of the Viking Festival. My wife’s interested in all that.’

Ted nodded. ‘I used to go to those events when I was a kid.’

A crowd had gathered the previous day near the west door of the Minster, where a group of people dressed as Vikings were standing on the steps. The men wore round helmets, hooded cloaks and belted woollen tunics, while the women wore long skirts and pinafores fastened with belts and brooches.

‘A lot of them aren’t wearing replicas of authentic Viking helmets,’ Bev told him. ‘Nose guards weren’t around until the Normans, and the Vikings never had horns sticking out of their helmets.’

‘Where do those originate from then?’ Ian nodded at a group of men sporting huge curved horns on either side of their helmets.

‘I don’t know.’

Ian stopped one of the Vikings wearing a horned helmet. ‘Where’s your helmet from?’

‘eBay, mate.’

At a rousing note on a cow’s horn, the onlookers surged round the outside of the cathedral to watch a host of costumed Vikings marching past, yelling ‘Odin!’, and banging their shields with their spears.

‘Imagine if you lived here a thousand years ago, and you saw this lot arriving,’ Bev said. ‘It must’ve been terrifying.’

Swept along with the crowd following the rowdy costumed Vikings, they followed the procession along Parliament Street to St Sampson Square. There was a crush outside Yorvik before they turned left along Castlegate, round the base of Clifford’s Tower, to gather around the green outside the Castle museum. Ranks of costumed warriors lined up on the grass, banging their spears on their shields.

The re-enactment began and the roar of the crowd lifted to a crescendo. A man’s voice rang out on a loudspeaker relating the story of the legendary battle. To the accompaniment of cheering from the spectators, the lines of make-believe warriors ran towards each other, slowly swinging swords and waving spears. In their everyday lives bank clerks and teachers, librarians and shop assistants, they joined together to form good-natured armies pretending to hack one another to death. Carefully staged to avoid injury, it looked like a health and safety nightmare. With the battle cries of the victors, and the yells of people pretending to be hacked down, it was an epic show. Bodies fell and lay motionless, their shields protecting their heads. One corpse wriggled away from the stamping feet of a couple of men engaged in combat beside him.

Ian grinned, enjoying the lively atmosphere of so many people out in the open air, engaged in harmless fun. He hadn’t seen his wife looking so happy since they had moved to York on his promotion to detective inspector. After so many years, he still couldn’t believe his luck. He had fallen for Bev when they were at school together. He had never dreamed then that she would eventually become his wife. She hated living so far from her family and friends in the South. It didn’t help that her first job in York had ended disastrously, denting her fragile self-esteem. Ian could never understand how such a beautiful, capable woman could be so lacking in confidence.

‘You should have dressed up as a Viking warrior! I always said you look like a Viking,’ she shouted up at him.

‘Tall, blonde, good-looking,’ he agreed with a grin.

In the cheerful shouting, a deep voice roared out in genuine rage.

‘Some fucker’s nicked me axe!’

A huge, broad-shouldered man with a bushy beard was bellowing about a stolen weapon. He looked like a brute ready for a fight, despite his bare head. Red-faced, with the veins bulging in his thick neck, he towered menacingly over a worried-looking official in an orange hi-vis jacket.

‘Cost me a fucking fortune!’

The official stared helplessly up at him. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do…’

‘Nothing you can do? Cost me nearly a hundred quid! I bought it specially. You’d better bloody find it.’

The official muttered about Festival regulations and liability for loss or damage. He looked terrified. With a sigh, Ian stepped forward to calm the aggrieved man before his frustration erupted in violence.

‘I’m a detective inspector,’ he said loudly. ‘Do you want to report something stolen?’

The official threw Ian a grateful glance as Ian led the tall man away from the barrier, and the crush of spectators.

‘Someone’s nicked me bloody axe,’ the tall man said, as soon as they could hear one another. ‘Cost me nearly a hundred quid and the guy I bought it from told me it was a one-off. I’ve never seen another one like it. Unique it was, and it was right here.’ He held out his palm, as though his empty hand proved his claim. ‘It’s a genuine replica. Cost me a small fortune and now someone’s gone and nicked it. Bloody hell. I had it right here in my hand. Some fucker just grabbed it off me and disappeared in the crowd before I could stop him. There was no way I could see where he went. Bastard!’

Ian asked him to describe the thief, but the tall man had spotted only a hooded figure who had slipped away before he had registered the theft.

‘He was too bloody quick.’

Ian went through the motions of taking the report seriously, just to pacify the other man.

‘Do you have a picture of your axe?’

‘Picture?’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘Yes. It’s a replica of a real Viking axe. It’s got a heavy iron head with a steel edge, and a wooden handle, and there’s a rune engraved on the blade, so you should be able to find it.’

‘A rune?’

‘Yes, a rune, engraved on the blade. It’s for protection. It’s… look, I can draw it for you.’

Seizing the pen Ian offered he drew a capital Y, adding a third middle vertical branch. It looked like a trident.

‘So do you mean this pattern’s engraved on the axe blade?’

‘Yes. That’s right. It’s a rune. Bloody hell, over a hundred quid it cost me.’

They were interrupted by a loud roar. The battle was over. Promising to contact the man if his axe turned up, Ian took Bev’s hand. Together they watched the show draw to a close, in an explosion of fireworks. The battle victims clambered to their feet, brushing themselves down and gathering their weapons.

Above the cacophony of voices, a scream reverberated, shrill and clear. About to walk away, Ian paused and turned to look over his shoulder.

‘Wait here,’ he told Bev.

‘Oh Ian, what now?’

Frowning, he vaulted over the barrier, and ran towards a woman in a belted dress and head scarf. She was standing beside a man who lay motionless on the ground. The woman was flapping her arms and shrieking incoherently, staring down at the prone figure in white-faced horror. Two St John ambulance workers materialised as if from nowhere, racing towards the body. One of them knelt down and felt for a pulse. For a few seconds no one spoke, then she rose to her feet and shrugged.

‘He’s blind drunk.’ She turned to a festival official. ‘It’s just some sozzled idiot giving everyone a fright. Nothing to worry about.’

3

‘Charles, for Christ’s sake, we’ve been over it all before and you agreed to come with me this weekend. It’s been in the calendar for weeks. You can’t back out now.’

Charles glanced sideways at his wife. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, there’s no way…’

He broke off in mid-sentence as he glimpsed a bloody victim of a hit and run sprawled on the pavement in a side street.

‘Charles, you’re coming with me and that’s that. It’s in the calendar.’

She paused, noticing his frown. The car behind hooted as Charles pulled into the side of the road. A few other drivers beeped their horns. One of them wound down his window to shout abuse as he drove past.

‘Charles! What the hell are you doing? You can’t stop here!’

‘Stay in the car!’

Ignoring his wife’s shrill protest, he jumped out of the car, slammed his door and dashed back to the side street where he had seen the body. Phone in hand, he turned to check Sharon hadn’t followed him. Accustomed to viewing cadavers, he could see straight away that something was seriously amiss. Whatever had happened to her, this girl had not been hit by a car. Just as he got through to the emergency services, Sharon appeared on the corner, yelling at him. He waved at her to stay back, talking quickly into the phone all the while.

‘Yes, a woman’s body. What?’ He listened to the question, still gesticulating furiously at Sharon to stay away. ‘Yes, she’s definitely dead. In Cambridge Street, near the corner of Holgate Road. What’s that?’ He gave his name and occupation, registering how the speaker’s tone altered as soon as she heard he was a surgeon. ‘Look, this isn’t a pretty sight,’ he went on. ‘You need to get a team here straight away to cordon the area off. It’s… well, it’s bloody. She’s been hacked to death.’ He listened, before repeating carefully, ‘Yes, hacked to death, with a large, heavy blade of some kind, a carving knife or a cleaver, something sharp and heavy, I’d say, although that’s just an initial impression. Her head’s been split open with what looks like a single blow.’

He listened again but before he could respond, the wail of a siren cut across the hum of traffic. At the same time, someone screamed. Turning, he saw Sharon, white-faced, her eyes stretched wide, her mouth gaping.

‘I told you to stay in the car!’ he snapped.

Judging by the reactions of the two police officers who arrived, it was fortunate Charles had been first on the scene.

‘I’m sorry,’ one of the young constables muttered, wiping his mouth. ‘I just wasn’t expecting this.’ He glanced at the bloody corpse and winced, his eyes sliding rapidly away again.

Charles nodded. Although his scrutiny of the body had been purely clinical, he could appreciate it was an unpleasant sight. With one blow the killer had cracked the woman’s skull open. Seeping from the gash in her forehead, bloody brain tissue had covered the top half of her face in a macabre eye mask. As far as he could tell, the dead woman had been young, little more than a girl. She was lying on her back, dressed in a short black skirt and denim jacket, the latter streaked with dried blood. One of her shoes had fallen off and was lying nearby in the gutter. He noted mechanically how small her feet were, a hole in her tights exposing a turquoise toenail. Behind him someone groaned. He turned and saw Sharon, propped up against the wall, still vomiting.

‘I told you to stay in the car,’ he repeated wearily.

Time seemed to slow down while they stood around waiting for someone in authority to arrive and start issuing commands. Just as Charles decided he would have to take charge of the situation himself, a convoy of police cars drew up, sirens blaring, and the street became hectic with activity. People were talking rapidly on phones, a cordon appeared as if from nowhere, and a line of uniformed officers ushered away a crowd of onlookers who seemed to have sprung from the pavement.

Charles approached a portly middle-aged sergeant. ‘I need to get to work.’

The policeman shook his head. ‘We need you to stay here, sir.’

Tersely, Charles explained who he was, and that he needed to get to the hospital where he had patients waiting. With a nod the sergeant made a note of his contact details and let him go.

‘Come on,’ Charles said, taking Sharon by the hand. ‘Let’s get you home. You’re in no fit state to go to work.’

Hand in hand they walked slowly back to the car.

‘I wonder who she was.’

‘It makes no difference to her now. Try to put it out of your head.’

‘It’ll make a difference to anyone who knew her. She was murdered, wasn’t she?’

‘It certainly looks that way. But I don’t suppose she would have known anything about it,’ he added untruthfully.

She must have seen the blade descending; an instant of terror before it cracked her skull and sliced through her brain.

‘What about her family?’ Sharon was asking tearfully.

‘There’s no point in upsetting yourself. The police are there. They’ll take care of everything. That’s their job. There’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. Now come on.’

‘I suppose we’ll hear all about it in the news.’

‘I daresay.’ He opened his car door.

‘Well I hope they catch the sick bastard who did that to her,’ Sharon said, sniffing and wiping her eyes, careless of her smudged mascara.

Charles nodded, surprised at feeling faintly nauseous now he was no longer responsible for what happened to the dead girl. Accustomed to working in an operating theatre, even he had been shocked by the horrific sight of a girl who had been so brutally assaulted on the street.

4

Back at his desk, Ian was contemplating going home to see Bev when his phone rang. As soon as he hung up there was a knock on his door. It was Ted.

‘Ready?’

Ian nodded and they hurried out to the car park without speaking. Ian was pleased to be working with the young sergeant. Not only was Ted efficient and easy to get along with, but he had lived in York all his life. He drove them straight to the address they had been given. Ian sat in the passenger seat experiencing a familiar adrenaline rush mingled with anxiety. Many of his colleagues appeared genuinely unmoved by crime scenes, however bloody. Ian could understand why they were eager to study a victim at the scene of a crime. Viewing a body before it was moved could assist them to ascertain what had happened. The trouble was he had not yet managed to conquer the nausea he felt on seeing a dead body. The only part of the job he dreaded even more than that was speaking to the bereaved.

The body had not yet been taken to the mortuary. Pulling on protective gear, they entered the white forensic tent which had been erected on the pavement near the corner of Holgate Street. If he and Bev had children, he couldn’t imagine ever taking them camping. He had seen too many murder victims to enter a tent without experiencing a visceral horror.

‘What do we know?’ Ian asked, staring at a scene of crime officer to put off looking directly at the corpse.

His white-coated colleague shrugged. ‘She was young, female, white; some nutter sliced vertically through the top of her head.’

‘Was she carrying any ID?’

She pointed out another white-coated officer who was delicately rummaging through a blue-and-white canvas shoulder bag. As Ian approached he saw that the bag and its contents were stained with blood. Bracing himself, he turned to study the dead girl. The woolly texture of her badly bleached hair contrasted pathetically with the healthy sheen on Bev’s blonde hair. Dismissing the comparison with his wife, Ian focussed on the corpse for a moment, before addressing the officer who was holding the woman’s bag.

‘What have you got?’

‘Her name is Angela Jones, sixteen years old.’ He held out a student card, the edges stained with blood. ‘There’s another card, but…’ He shrugged and held out what looked like a travel card, too badly soiled to be legible.

‘Sixteen,’ Ian repeated glumly.

‘Sixteen last month.’

‘Anything else in her purse?’

‘A fiver. That’s all.’

‘No change?’

‘No coins.’

Ian forced himself to turn and look at the girl’s face. From what he could see she was pretty, with full lips and a button nose. If he squinted until her features were out of focus, she appeared to be wearing sunglasses, because her eyes were concealed behind a mask of dried blood. From the small image on her student card he knew they were dark and assumed she was naturally brunette, as her hair was so obviously bleached.

‘Is there a death certificate?’

‘Yes. That was a stroke of luck. A doctor was first on the scene.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘He had to get off to the hospital.’

‘Damn. What time did he get here?’

‘He reported it at seven fifteen.’

‘Out and about early.’

The death certificate wouldn’t reveal anything Ian couldn’t see for himself: the girl’s head had been split open by a violent blow with a large blade. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that death must have been instantaneous. That was some solace.

‘Who would do that?’ Ted asked, dark eyes solemn behind his mask. ‘She’s little more than a child.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Ian replied grimly, ‘but whoever did it, we’ll find them. And that’s a promise.’

He was no longer speaking to his colleague. He was speaking to a young girl with dyed blonde hair; a girl who could no longer hear him.

5

‘Are you going to wake her up then?’

‘No. Let her sleep.’

‘What time did she get in last night?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear her come in.’

Moira put two mugs of tea on the table and sat down opposite her husband. They ate their breakfast in silence: tea, toast and marmalade, the same as every morning. Neither of them spoke. It wasn’t the first time they had disagreed about Angela. Moira watched Frank’s scowl, waiting for him to calm down, but once he had finished his breakfast he started up again, his pointed beard shaking with every emphatic word he uttered.

‘You let that child run wild.’

It was a familiar argument.

‘She’s not a child, Frank, she’s an adult, and she’s not running wild. She works hard.’

He snorted. ‘She’s barely sixteen. That’s not an adult. And she certainly doesn’t behave like one, out God knows where to all hours, getting up to God knows what behind our backs. It’s time she got herself a job.’

‘They all stay on at school these days. Would you rather she stopped studying?’

‘I’d rather she stopped running around, wasting her time with that wild crowd. What kind of studying is she doing? She’d be much better off going and getting a proper job. One that pays good money. She should at least get herself a Saturday job if she must stay at school.’

‘Where’s she going to get a job? You know as well as I do there’s no work for the youngsters these days.’

‘So you’re happy to see her pay good money for other people to fill her head with all sorts of nonsense that’s never going to get her a proper job?’

‘She’s trying to better herself, Frank. Would you rather she spent her life cutting hair?’

Frank lowered his heavy eyebrows. His bald head gleamed under the kitchen light.

‘It’s hardly bettering herself, haring around with other young idiots, all of them getting drunk and getting into debt. And there’s nothing wrong with hairdressing. It was good enough for you. I never heard you complaining. There will always be plenty of women stupid enough to pay other women to cut their hair for them instead of picking up a pair of scissors for themselves.’

Moira stood up and began to clear away the plates. ‘These days they all need degrees to get jobs.’

‘I’d agree with you if she was prepared to do something proper, but a degree in media studies? Don’t make me laugh. That’s never going to pay the bills, is it? So, are you going to let her sleep all morning?’

Moira waited until Frank went out before she trudged upstairs. It was nearly midday and Angela still hadn’t stirred. She seemed happy to lie in bed until all hours at the weekend – and sometimes during the week too, even in term time. It irked Moira as much as Frank, but she would never admit that to her husband. It might have been different if Angela had been his daughter. As it was, Moira couldn’t help leaping to her daughter’s defence whenever Frank criticised the girl, which happened with increasing frequency. It had become an ongoing source of conflict between them. She knocked on Angela’s door and waited, but there was no response. The girl must still be asleep. Really, Frank was right. The way Angela was carrying on was unacceptable. She rapped on the door again, more loudly this time. There was still no reply. Gingerly she turned the handle. Angela would probably scream at her for entering without permission, but, as Frank never tired of pointing out, whose house was it? Moira was entitled to open a door in her own home.

‘While you’re sleeping in my house, you follow my rules,’ he had bellowed at Angela.

‘It’s not your house,’ she had retorted.

That was true, strictly speaking, but pointing that out had done nothing to calm his temper.

‘You watch your mouth!’

Moira hated the way they argued. She and Frank squabbled, and he could turn quite nasty, but he had never raised his hand against her. Frank’s hostility towards Angela seemed to hold a different sort of menace. Angela wasn’t blameless either. She seemed to enjoy goading Frank.

‘What you going to do?’ she had taunted him only the day before. ‘You going to hit me?’

‘If you were five years younger, I’d put you over my knee, so help me,’ he had fumed, his huge fists clenched at his sides.

Moira peered inside her daughter’s bedroom. It was a tip; clothes and underwear spread around the floor in garish disarray, along with brushes, combs, hair ornaments, cheap jewellery, tubes of make-up, shoes and the occasional magazine in which perfectly groomed models stared icily from glossy pages, their hair impossibly sleek. In the middle of the chaos, Angela’s bed was empty. Moira frowned. She hadn’t heard her daughter go out that morning. She wondered uneasily what Frank would do if he discovered his stepdaughter had stayed out all night without even bothering to phone home to inform her mother where she was. He would call her selfish, and thoughtless, and irresponsible, and a common little slut. There would be more rows. Taking everything into account, Moira wondered whether it would be better to cover up for her daughter. Again.

Hearing the front door slam, she ran to the stairs. If Angela was home before Frank, he would never need to find out that she hadn’t come home the previous night. This time, Moira was going to speak very sharply to her daughter and tell her in no uncertain terms that her behaviour was unacceptable. She ran downstairs, but Frank was in the hall. There was no sign of Angela.

‘Well?’ he accosted her. She could tell he was wound up. ‘Have you spoken to her yet, or do you want me to do it? I’ve been thinking; we need to lay down some ground rules. I want her home by ten every night, and up in the morning before nine at the weekends. That’s late enough. She might not like it, but this is our house, and we make the rules. Where is she? I’m going to speak to her right now.’

Moira stepped forward.

‘You can’t.’

‘Don’t tell me who I can and can’t speak to in my own house!’

‘I mean, you can’t speak to her right now because… because she’s not here.’

‘She’s gone out again?’

‘Yes, that is, no.’

‘What do you mean, yes, no? Moira, what are you talking about?’

‘She didn’t come home last night.’

Her relief at telling him the truth was short-lived. Even though she was expecting a reaction, his violent outburst startled her.

‘That’s it!’ he yelled, red-faced. ‘Enough! She has to go!’

Seeing her tears, he went on more gently. ‘You must see we can’t go on like this. It’s no good for anyone. It’s time we had words with her.’

‘Words?’

‘Tell her she has to leave, find somewhere else to live.’

‘No! Frank, you can’t do that. She’s my daughter.’

‘Well, she doesn’t behave like a daughter. She’s no good, Moira. Getting up late is one thing, but this…’ He pulled a face. ‘Staying out all night! She did it deliberately to spite us. We can’t carry on like this…’

He was interrupted by the doorbell.

‘Right!’ He turned to the door. ‘Leave this to me!’

‘No, Frank, she’s my daughter. I’ll speak to her.’

The doorbell rang again. Frank flung the door open. A man was standing on the doorstep. Towering over Frank, he held up an identity card.

‘May I come in?’

‘Oh shit, now she’s got herself in trouble with the police. I knew this would happen,’ Frank growled. ‘Look, officer, Angela’s not a bad girl. She’s just fallen in with the wrong crowd. She’s only sixteen. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out with her. We were just saying we need to keep a closer eye on her, weren’t we, Moira?’

‘May I come in?’ the detective repeated.

6

The detective chief inspector gazed sternly round the room and the assembled team fell silent under her gaze. Eileen Duncan was a thickset middle-aged woman, with a square chin and a determined air. Although he was wary of working with such a forceful woman, Ian had to acknowledge that she achieved results. Her gaze lingered on him in silent acknowledgement of his presence.

‘What have we got?’ she asked.

With a nod, Ian stepped forward. He wished he was better prepared to brief the team.

‘The body of Angela Jones was found just after seven thirty this morning by a hospital surgeon, Mr Charles Everleigh. His wife was with him. They were on their way to work. He was going to drop his wife at the station on his way to the hospital. She works in Leeds. We haven’t got the post mortem report yet but the victim appears to have died from a head wound caused by a single slash with a sharp weapon, a cleaver or a large knife of some description. Hence all the blood,’ he added, turning to glance briefly at the image on the screen behind him.

‘She looks very young,’ someone commented.

‘Only just sixteen,’ Ian confirmed. He paused while a faint sigh whispered around his assembled colleagues. ‘The doctor at the scene placed the time of death at between ten thirty and eleven thirty on Sunday night.’

‘Just sixteen,’ Eileen repeated loudly. She sounded angry. ‘And no one noticed she hadn’t come home last night.’

Ian wondered if Eileen had a daughter. She wore a plain gold band on her wedding finger, but it was hard to imagine her as a mother. She seemed too fierce to have cared for children, although he realised she must behave differently away from work.

Ian nodded. ‘Mother and stepfather didn’t notice her absence until this morning. They thought she must have come in after they went to bed at around ten thirty. Mother said she would have waited up but the stepfather refused to allow it. He seems to be very much in charge in the relationship, although possibly less able to control his teenage stepdaughter.’

‘Angela Jones wasn’t his own daughter,’ Eileen commented thoughtfully.

‘But she was his stepdaughter,’ Ian replied. ‘She lived with them.’

‘What do we know about the weapon?’ Eileen asked, turning back to the evidence.

‘Well, not a lot as yet, only it must have been pretty heavy and sharp to slice through her skull.’

‘And presumably whoever was wielding it was strong,’ Eileen added. ‘Oh well, let’s not speculate about that for now. We’ll know more when we get the result of the post mortem, and hear from forensics.’

After writing up his report, Ian set off to speak to Charles Everleigh. Conveniently for Ian, he worked in the hospital where the mortuary was located. Charles was in theatre, so Ian went straight to the mortuary where he was pleased to see Avril, the cheerful young anatomical pathology technician he had met while he was working on a previous case.

‘Hi, Ian,’ she greeted him with a ready smile. ‘How’s things? And how’s your wife?’

‘She’s OK,’ he answered vaguely.

It occurred to him that he had no idea about Avril’s relationship status. So much for being a detective. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

‘I suppose you’re here to see Jonah,’ she went on.

He nodded, mentally bracing himself to view Angela’s cadaver again.

Avril pulled a mock sad face. ‘And there I was, thinking my luck was finally in and you’d come here just for me. Oh well, your loss.’

Ian grinned and followed her into the mortuary where the local home office pathologist was examining the body. Jonah Hetherington was a plump man in his forties. He had pale freckled skin and ginger hair. For someone with such a grim job, he was unremittingly cheerful.

‘She’s young,’ Jonah said, plunging in straight away.

‘Yes, I know. Just sixteen.’

‘Like the song.’ Jonah broke into song in a pleasant tenor voice, beating time with a bloody gloved hand, ‘She was just sixteen, and you know what I mean.’

Catching sight of Ian’s expression he broke off, with a mischievous grin. Ian couldn’t help smiling.

‘Right,’ Jonah went on in a business-like tone. ‘Time of death around eleven on Sunday night. She was killed with one single blow which cracked her skull open like… well, cracking it in two. She would have died instantaneously. Her attacker was standing in front of her when he struck, so she may well have seen him. There’s no knowing.’ He paused, contemplating the dead white face, split open almost as far down as the eyes.

‘He?’

‘What?’

‘You said “he”.’

‘Did I?’

‘Does that mean you think the killer was a man?’

Jonah shook his head. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure if we’re looking for a man or a woman,’ he replied.

‘You said “he”,’ Ian reminded him. ‘What gave you the impression it was a man who did this?’

Again, Jonah hesitated. ‘Did I say “he”?’ he asked. ‘I think what I was thinking was that the killer hit her pretty hard, that’s all, so it seems more likely she was killed by a man.’

‘But it’s only an impression?’

‘Indeed,’ Jonah confirmed. ‘At this stage, there’s no knowing the gender of the killer, or anything else for that matter. Rest assured, Ian, we’re doing everything we can to winkle out more information from her.’

‘Is it possible to at least estimate the height of her assailant from the angle of the blow?’

Jonah shook his head. ‘If only I could. To answer with any certainty, I’d need to know his arm length, and whether he was standing on anything when he hit her. It seems unlikely, to be honest. My guess is he was an average-sized bloke, quite strong. But that is pure guesswork, and not very helpful to you.’

‘What about the murder weapon?’

Jonah frowned. ‘A clean cut with a straight, sharp blade. It looks like a very wide knife, something like an axe blade.’

‘An axe? Keep that quiet for now, will you?’

Jonah nodded. He understood why Ian wouldn’t want the media getting hold of that sensational possibility.

‘It was a particularly violent attack,’ Jonah went on, ‘but I wonder if it mightn’t have been a mugging that went spectacularly wrong.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Jonah picked up one of the dead girl’s hands, spreading the fingers out. Looking closely, Ian could see what he was pointing out. Three fingers on her right hand bore indentations from wearing rings. He saw the same marks on two fingers on her left hand. The skin on one finger had been scraped, as though a ring had been forcibly removed.

‘And this,’ Jonah added.

He indicated a fine weal on the side of her neck. ‘It looks as though she was wearing a chain that was roughly pulled off. This scratch was inflicted after she was dead.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, except that this was a particularly violent attack.’

7

Seeing the time, Ian cursed under his breath and rolled wearily out of bed. He had overslept after a late night. Having upset his wife by going into work the previous day, he had gone home in the evening to argue with her and make up, finally taking her out for dinner by way of an apology. After an emotionally disturbing day at work he hadn’t felt like going out, but he had felt he owed it to his wife to try and cheer her up. Bev was still snoring gently as he got up. He dressed without opening the bedroom curtains and slipped quietly out of the house. Grabbing a coffee and a roll from the canteen, he went straight to his desk. Uninterrupted, he enjoyed a quiet moment to himself as he ate his modest breakfast. The tranquillity didn’t last long. There was a gentle tap, and Ted poked his head round the door.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Hi, Ted. Well, you might as well come in now you’re here. What is it?’

Although he was a Yorkshire man, born and bred, the young sergeant’s dark colouring gave him a Mediterranean appearance. Shorter than Ian, he was muscular and energetic. With a single-minded focus on the job, he was nevertheless easy to get along with, and Ian was really pleased to be working with him again. He smiled encouragingly at the young sergeant and repeated his question.

‘Am I interrupting?’ Ted asked, with a nod at Ian’s breakfast which was now just a few crumbs on a paper serviette.