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First published 2015
Copyright © Alastair Gunn, 2015
All rights reserved
Extract from Cold Christmas copyright © Alastair Gunn, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover images: © Arcangel-images.com; © Getty Images
ISBN: 978-1-405-91447-5
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part Two
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
Acknowledgements
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For Anna
As somebody still overwhelmed to be writing the acknowledgements for his second published title, I must thank the following people. Eternal gratitude to Rowland White and his team at Penguin, and to my agents, Caroline and Joanna at Hardman & Swainson, for working collectively behind the scenes to make this incredible experience a reality. Heartfelt thanks also to my family, friends and colleagues for their continued encouragement, feedback and support. And, of course, to Anna, who still amazes me every day with her insight and strength. Writing a novel requires an innate compulsion to commit thought to page, but every writer needs a reason to do what they do, and you are my reason. Here’s to the next story.
True devotion is deadly
They taught you stealth; that was one good thing about them.
Maybe the only good thing.
Bull didn’t have to think about it as he reached the end of the alley and stopped in deep shadow, looking at the Tandoori restaurant out on the main street. His feet didn’t make any noise, because they’d trained him to move silently, no matter what sort of terrain he was on, or what kind of shoes he wore.
He sniffed the black air. It was dry and cold, but he couldn’t tell whether the smell of burning was real or just a memory. The permanent ringing in his ears confused everything, blurring the differences between now and back then.
He checked his watch.
Almost time.
Footsteps, left, two people, ten yards. Bull reacted, reaching into his jacket. By the time the couple passed he’d lit up and was facing the wall, smoking, swaying, taking a leak. Nothing to see.
He waited for them to pass and gave it a few more seconds before he turned back, glancing up at the camera above him; it was pointing down the road to his right. There was no way it could see him; it couldn’t look straight down, and the next two cameras were in the wrong places to zero him, too. Motors whirred as the camera turned, and he imagined some unwashed civvy operator in a poky control room, chomping a burger and zooming in on drunk teenage girls as they fell out of the pubs.
He sank further into the darkness as the door across the road opened, right on schedule.
And there she was.
Rosa stepped on to the pavement; timid, alone, her fragile neck wrapped in a scarf, her bag clamped tight to her side. He watched her face in the darkness, seeing the usual signs. The bowed shoulders; the empty eyes …
Part of him strained towards her, nearly making him step into view, but it was a distant part, buried by years of torture and pain. He held back. Showing himself now wouldn’t help either of them; it was way too late for any of that. There was no room for compassion.
Or sympathy.
Rosa zipped her jacket and crossed the road in front of him, heading north towards the junction, not even glancing his way. Bull didn’t follow; there was no need. He knew exactly where she would go.
She’d followed the same pattern every week since coming here, to this new town; her new life. Finish work at eleven, tidy up and leave the restaurant by quarter to twelve. Wander along the high street, turn at the bank on the corner and take the short route home, behind the Palace Exchange, through the dark, deserted paths.
Where Bull would strike.
He watched her trudge away up the high street. Was she walking even more slowly than normal? Pity flared again, but he forced it down. It was nothing, just nerves, caused by what he was about to do. But that didn’t make it wrong.
He approached the shadow’s edge, seeking a better view. Thirty yards ahead, Rosa had reached the bus stop at the end of the road. But just as Bull expected her to disappear around the next corner, she did something unexpected.
She stopped and looked back.
Bull shot sideways, losing sight of her as he slid behind the wall. Had she seen him? He wanted to look again, but what if she was watching, waiting for him?
A bus thundered past, the noise and fumes making him jump. His hands flew to his face, clawing at the dust blown into his eyes. He heard someone shout in the distance.
It isn’t real.
Bull lowered his hands, annoyed; renewed his concentration. He leaned around the corner and looked up the street. Rosa was still there, standing right where she’d been, not looking down the street towards him any more. But then he realized why she was there: she was waiting for the bus that had just passed him and was now pulling into the stop.
She was going off plan.
He almost started forwards, only just remembering the cameras and stopping himself in time. The police weren’t looking for him yet, but they would be soon.
He couldn’t follow.
Rosa got on the bus, its doors closing behind her, and Bull swore as it pulled away, realizing this would cost him another week. She only worked here Fridays, on top of her day job in a sports outlet in the nearby retail park. This was his chance, and she was getting away.
But as the bus turned right at the end of the street, he noticed the number on its rear display.
121.
Straight off, Bull knew what to do. He turned and headed back along the alleyway, into the dark. Rosa had caught that bus once before, a couple of weeks ago. She’d been lugging some heavy baggage, and had probably caught it to save her skinny legs. Bull hadn’t pursued her directly – it was always best to keep some distance – but he had waited for the next 121. He’d soon found out where she’d gone, because the bus followed the one-way system until two stops later, when it pulled up on Cecil Road, opposite Sydney Road.
Where she now lived.
Tonight she was tired or unwell, so she’d caught the bus straight home. It fucked up Bull’s plan, but he could deal with that. He just had to adapt before he lost focus.
Because he needed to get this done.
If he was quick, he could cut through the paths and head her off. It was risky: hitting her between rows of houses rather than in a quiet alleyway. But the first hundred feet of Sydney Road were unlit, and mostly deserted at this time of night.
Bull picked up his pace, careful not to let himself sprint. His bad leg was already giving him shit, and there was no point getting there in time only to give his position away by breathing too hard.
He reached the corner and turned left, leaving behind the last traces of yellow light from the street, glad of the half-moon’s glow. The alley was narrow, wire fences either side holding back thick bushes and trees that hung above his head. He ran surrounded by darkness, so caught up in planning his first strike that he forgot all about the shopping trolley.
The mesh obstacle leapt out of the shadows just inches in front. He’d passed it earlier on, had shoved it against the fence. But it still filled half the path.
Bull jumped mid-stride, trying to avoid it. But his foot caught the metal edge and he fell, tumbling sideways. Wet leaves exploded around his face, and the heels of his hands ground painfully across the concrete as he slid to a halt.
He scrambled back up and kept moving, brushing the gravel off his palms, ignoring his clothes. The fall would have put him behind, and he still couldn’t see the far end of the path. Pain ripped at his bad leg: stress on bones that were meant to be supported by muscle. He blocked it out and ran faster, clenching his teeth, feeling something grind between them. He raised a hand to his face. It was on his lips, in his mouth. From the fall.
Grit.
He coughed and spat. That shit was everywhere, carried in the air by the wind. He pulled up his collar and held it across his face. If that stuff got into your teeth, you were chewing it for days.
You’re losing focus.
He banged a hand against the side of his head.
Suddenly, he saw the end of the alley. The patch of light grew as he ran, pushing the memories away. He reached the street and stopped, just inside the entrance to the pathway, trying to bring his heart rate down. Opposite him, the shop fronts flanking the bus stop.
The empty bus stop.
Bull stepped forward just enough to see the end of Sydney Road. No sign of her. Either the bus had already gone and she was now too far ahead, or –
He turned as the sound of the engine reached him. The bus was approaching, the number 121 clearly lit above the driver. Bull waited while it pulled in, watching Rosa step out on to the pavement on the far side. The bus pulled away, leaving her at the stop, fiddling with her music player. After a moment, she found a track and set off.
Bull gave her a small head start then followed, crossing the now quiet street to where he could trail her from straight behind. They turned left into Sydney Road, and Bull started closing the gap as they reached the unlit sector. The street was run-down, covered in graffiti and lined with busted cars, but he still had to make the most of the dark. A hundred yards in, brick walls and windowless buildings were replaced by a pay-and-display car park, where the light was much better. And just beyond that was the scruffy house his target shared with a few other girls.
It had to be now.
Bull closed in, glancing around for other people, reaching into his jacket for the weapon. He pulled out the hammer and raised it. Rosa didn’t look round, and he wondered what sort of music she’d chosen to listen to in her final moments.
He caught her up.
And the hammer swung.
Samantha Philips entered the room, ushered in by a stern-looking older woman who poked her head in to make sure her consignment wasn’t alone before retreating.
‘Hello, Samantha,’ he said as she stopped just inside. ‘My name is Pierce Reid. I’m a counsellor.’
Philips didn’t respond. Instead, she scanned the space around her, moving just her eyes, but not in the nervous manner often demonstrated by others. Her expression was more of cold assessment. Distant recall.
It wasn’t surprising; she probably hadn’t seen anything approaching luxury for the last six years, and this would certainly be the first time she’d visited the boardroom, with its scented dried flowers and carpet.
In truth, he’d expected a little more reverence. Visitors to parole prep sessions like this were never warned. An early alarm call preceded the ominous march to this comparatively opulent room, accompanied by an unfamiliar guard. Usually that combination helped to lower the subject’s defences, briefly at least. A seasoned inmate’s reaction to the room often revealed more about her desire to re-join society than anything she might say afterwards. The reason he used it.
He motioned to one of the soft leather chairs. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
Philips looked at him for the first time, a fleeting, emotionless flick, then away. But still no reply. He could see the unnecessarily heavy-duty cuffs digging into her wrists, but she hadn’t attempted to adjust them. Instead she continued scrutinizing the room, obviously aware of the camera lens trained on her from above.
‘Stand if you prefer, but we may be here for a while if you’re going to insist on communicating telepathically.’
Another flick. No smile.
He waited, studying the slim woman in prison-issue overalls. Sam was twenty-four, and feisty – according to her record, both before and since she’d earned herself twelve years inside, six of which she’d served. Remnants of a pretty girl peeked out from behind the scragged-back hair and jail-hardened façade, but their traces were further subdued by an emptiness in the eyes that he’d seen too many times.
The void left by rape.
‘I heard about you.’
Reid only just caught her quiet, monotone words. He’d been expecting to play the one-way game for a while yet.
She was looking at him.
He cleared his throat, revising his position in the chair. ‘Go on.’
‘Few of the girls spoke to you before they left. Said you were all right.’
‘That’s interesting. Do you believe them?’
‘Maybe.’ Still no emotion, but with that Philips stepped around one of the chairs and sat, apparently unimpressed by its comfort. Reid watched her settle, cuffed hands coming to rest on her knees. He picked up the notepad and pen from the low table between them and positioned the pad on his crossed leg, turned up so that only he could see the page. He wrote ‘Samantha Philips’ on the top line.
‘So, Samantha.’ He looked up at her. ‘The board has decided that, based on your behaviour and their psychological assessments, you pose no continuing danger to others. There will be conditions, of course, but having now served a reasonable term, you are eligible for immediate parole, which represents a substantial cut in your sentence. That is, of course, if I agree.’
It was barely perceptible, but he was experienced enough to see the question cross Philips’ mind as realization broke.
Are you my way out of here?
He nodded, answering her unspoken query. ‘My job is to make sure you want to return to normal life. That you’re ready for, and capable of, reintegration.’
She looked away, to where a window might have been if they weren’t in the bowels of Holloway Prison. Her first emotional response.
Then, softly:
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Please, Mrs Antonio,’ the Indian doctor flapped as DCI Hawkins tried for a second time to slide off the hospital bed, ‘it is so important that you take things just one step at a time.’
‘It’s Antonia, and yes, you said. But I’m telling you; I can walk.’
‘Oh dear.’ Dr Badal backed away as Hawkins’ feet made contact with the freezing floor and she rocked into an upright position. Then he shot forwards again as she almost doubled over.
‘You see, Mrs Tonia, the upper abdominal muscles have not yet recuperated.’
She steadied herself on the mattress. ‘Then get me some crutches.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good –’
‘Now, please.’
‘Right.’ The doctor retreated, palpably brimming with fear of malpractice.
Hawkins waited for him to leave before she sagged against the bed. The intense burning sensation in her chest and stomach said he was probably right: she hadn’t recovered sufficiently from the near-fatal knife attack just six weeks ago to be standing up, let alone walking. Apparently, the network of muscles in her torso had been torn to shreds by the eleven stab wounds. And her subsequent fall – leading to several mashed ribs – hadn’t helped.
But this place was driving her mad.
Projected recovery time from injuries like hers was more like a month. But, thanks to extra layers of complication provided by Sod’s Law – in her case an MRSA infection contracted ten days after her operation – Hawkins had spent an extra two weeks in a private room, returning only once purged to the general ward. She was improving steadily, but whereas bacteria had failed to finish her off, psychosis brought on by this riling confinement still might.
Dr Badal buzzed back into the room holding a set of crutches, followed by a young nurse pushing an empty wheelchair. He just about stopped himself placing a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder. ‘I … understand your will to leave, really I do, but I must stress that a wheelchair would be a much better –’
‘Thank you.’ Hawkins took the crutches and began wrestling their supports around her forearms.
‘Err …’ The doctor squirmed. ‘You have to appreciate your anatomy, Mrs … please. Your axilla will be extremely sensit–’. But his words were drowned out by Hawkins’ scream as she rested her weight on the crutches and pain erupted in her armpits.
The nurse, obviously having been primed, appeared beside her as Hawkins dropped like an anvil into the wheelchair, crutches clattering to the floor.
‘I did tell you, Mrs Antonio.’ The doctor sounded genuinely sorry. ‘But you are strongly willed.’
Hawkins glared at him, breathing hard. ‘How long till I can leave?’
‘You must try to understand that your injuries are severe. You nearly died. You’re lucky.’
‘How long?’
‘You are making good progress. I think that, given –’
He stopped as the glare intensified, his shoulders sagging. ‘You can self-discharge at any time; I can’t prevent you. Sign a waiver and you can leave. But I highly recommend you remain here in hospital for at least one more week, giving your body time to recover.’
Dr Badal visibly shrank as Hawkins’ expression developed into the full Anne Robinson. Even the nurse leaned back.
‘Fine,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll stay.’
‘I think you are making the right choice, Mrs … really. I will come back later to check on you. Or … it may actually be my colleague.’
He withdrew, leaving the nurse to assist Hawkins out of the wheelchair and back into bed. She began untangling the catheter.
‘You’re not putting that godforsaken thing back in,’ Hawkins growled. ‘Leave the chair.’
Half an hour after Hawkins’ aborted attempt to use crutches, her armpits stopped ringing. She’d spent the intervening time watching the cup of tea provided by the nurse go cold, regretting her acquiescence. She pictured her office gathering dust. And her inbox, which would already be arranging emails into creaking monthly folders.
And what of the criminal backlog? Surely there were illegal acts going unpunished because she was in here. Or worse, if her team were able to maintain operations without her, there’d be no point in her going back at all. She groaned and looked out of the window.
The house would be spotless, of course. Her mum had always been a clean freak. MRSA hadn’t taken off until the nineties, probably not because of increasing resistance to antibiotics but because that was when Christine Hawkins retired from the NHS.
Hospital was a maddening experience, especially after two weeks of bedridden near-solitude. Her arse was permanently numb, and for someone who usually curtailed family contact after thirty minutes, visiting hour was purgatory. Her dad; fine. Mike or her friends; great. But her mother and sister, together, for three thousand six hundred seconds? Never again.
She needed to speak to Maguire.
Hawkins leaned across, trying to block out shrieking abdominal muscles, and retrieved her mobile from the bedside drawer.
She selected his number, which rang. And rang.
She ended her call and checked the time: 9 a.m. Her detective inspector, and sporadic boyfriend, was probably still in the morning briefing. Their on–off relationship had started two years ago as an illicit affair behind the back of Hawkins’ then fiancé, bounced along between amorous and torrid extremes, and ended when Hawkins had confessed everything to the man who then quickly became her ex. Meanwhile, Maguire was redeployed to Manchester, leading to a six-month hiatus. His return, less than two months ago, had precipitated similarly intense events. Together they had tracked down a dangerous psychopath, fallen in, out, and back in love again, and almost simultaneously saved each other’s lives.
She imagined him in the briefing, a tall, black American smiling atop a sea of pasty-faced Brits never short of something to criticize. Mike said the session had overrun every week since the new chief super’s introduction of his One-force Ambition Talk, or the ‘One-stop Bitching Shop’, as it had immediately become known: a ‘clarification and efficiency chat’ nailed on to the end of the daily meeting. Maybe hospital wasn’t that bad after all.
Her phone rang.
She answered, happy to hear Mike’s US accent. ‘Toni. My cell was on mute. What’s up?’
‘I wanted to hear your voice,’ she lied. ‘How’s work?’
He snorted. ‘Just got out of the shop. Geez, you Brits complain. Look, sorry I didn’t drop by last night, but I got a great excuse. We were in Craven Park, looking for the gang members who killed that student last month, when who should turn up but your favourite paedophile?’
‘You got Clarke? What happened?’
‘Long story, tell you later. How’re you feeling?’
‘Shocking. Distract me. What else is going on?’
‘Err, not much. Ran into your mom today at the house. Have you guys still not found her sense of humour?’
Something was wrong; he knew to exhaust work news before family got a look in.
‘Don’t lie to me, Maguire. What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing, just a rumour. Not even worth –’
‘Tell me.’
‘Ah, hell Toni, it’s just talk.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever. I heard they’re bringing in some hot-shit graduate to cover your role …’
Hawkins didn’t speak.
‘Just till you’re back.’
‘Jesus.’ She eyed the crutches, taunting her from beside the door. ‘It won’t be just till I’m back, though, will it? You know how these things work. He’ll be the chief’s protégé; the guy Vaughn’s had his eye on for a top job; the one he’s been waiting to promote. And I just vacated the perfect rung, didn’t I? Once graduate boy’s feet are up on my desk, I’ll be moved out quicker than the last Mrs Cruise.’
‘It won’t happen. That job’s yours.’
‘Bollocks. Come and get me.’
‘You’re still sick.’
‘I’m coming back to work, it’s the only way.’
‘Not on this train.’ He hung up.
‘You’re joking.’ She stared at the phone, then at the wheelchair. Then she scrolled down and selected another number, waiting for the answer before she spoke.
‘Dad? It’s me.’
The two men passed through the deepest patch of darkness on Chambord Street. A bony cat crossed the road in front of them, darting through the railings into the small park area beyond, when one of the men launched an empty beer can at it.
‘Fuckin’ pussy!’ he shouted as the cat fled, the can clanking along the pavement where it had been, and both of them burst out laughing. The cat shot under the nearest park bench and stopped, watching the men as they continued along the pavement, eventually disappearing from view.
Confident it was now safe to move on, the cat slid from its hiding place and started crossing the tatty grass towards the swings, stopping briefly to look back before rounding the corner. It seemed completely unaware of the homeless drunk huddled in the darkness under a damp cardboard duvet on the next bench.
Except there was no homeless drunk.
Bull sat under the broken streetlight, invisible.
Hunting.
From his covert position, he had a perfect view of the flats. The entire block was a toilet, that much was obvious, but there was something else, something weird about the whole area. There were no kids hanging out on the corners, no hookers, no dealers with dogs. But it went deeper than that. There was no buzzing sense of danger, like you usually got in this kind of low-grade shithole. Maybe that was it: the place had nothing left worth fighting over?
It had given up.
He scanned the buildings for signs of life. Nothing. But that was no surprise. People here didn’t want to see or be seen. Every window was either shielded by thick curtains or unlit. Bull had seen no more than a few locals since arriving an hour ago and those he had seen slunk away fast.
Suddenly there was movement, next to the battered Toyota parked across the road.
The man was back.
Bull hunkered low on the bench, careful not to draw attention. There was no panic, though; the guy was a prune, a scruffy-haired thumbsucker with suede shoes and a cheap coat. He was slim, maybe younger than Bull, but no threat.
The man heaved another box from the car boot, balancing it between his leg and the bumper while he reached up to shut the tailgate. He pulled it down sharply, yelping as it wrenched his fingers, swearing when he dropped his keys. He bent awkwardly, groping for them.
Then he locked the car and trudged back towards the flats, into the central staircase and up to the second floor of the seven-storey bughouse, where the authorities probably dumped all their scum. It was his third journey, so there couldn’t be many more boxes left. The Toyota’s boot wasn’t that big.
The guy reached the door of number twenty-eight, shoved it open with his foot, and went inside.
Ten minutes later he reappeared, but this time with company. The two people trudged to the pavement and stood talking by the car, although they were too far away for Bull to hear what was being said.
He watched, straining to make out detail in the dim light. She looked older, obviously, but there was no question.
It was her.
Even from a distance he could tell she looked tired, the face he knew so well lined with emotion and fatigue, creases etched ever deeper by the passing years. But he knew those feelings, too; shared every one with her.
That’s why she needed to die.
It looked as though the guy was trying to cheer her up, but he wasn’t having much luck. She stared into the distance as he rubbed her shoulders, and her arms hung limp when he gave her a hug. Then he got into the Toyota and drove away, leaving her alone on the kerb. Bull watched her standing under the streetlight. Was she crying again?
He wouldn’t have blamed her. Just being here was excuse enough. The council might have paid for this place, but now she was trapped by their rules, having to wander down two flights of stairs in the middle of the night just for a fag. He’d seen the NO SMOKING sign on her front door. How sick was that?
A moment later she moved across to lean against the wall, lighting up.
He waited, recognizing her routine. The only times she’d left the flat since he’d begun watching her were to buy food or to smoke, and all her pre-midnight cigarettes had been doused where she now stood.
But things changed after that. Once the temperature dropped she’d appeared less often: once every few hours through the night, wearing a coat and scarf, shuffling round several circuits of the small park area while she smoked.
But this time he’d be ready. Not on the bench like the first night, when she’d surprised him by coming into the park and walking straight past. With no choice then, he’d ignored her. Luckily, she hadn’t even glanced his way. And tonight he’d be further round the path, in the deeper shadows near the monument.
Twenty yards away she scratched out her cigarette against the wall, before dragging herself back up the stairs and along the balcony.
Then Bull watched as Samantha Philips opened her front door and slipped inside.
Hawkins jerked into consciousness, heart pounding. Blurred faces hung above her in the half-light, and immediately she was fighting the hands pinning her down, feeling the hot chill of sweat on her skin. Someone was talking.
‘All right, Antonia, just try to relax. You’re okay. You’re safe.’
Suddenly, her right hand was free. It flew to her chest, frantically searching for the raw puncture marks.
Where the knife had gone in.
‘Miss Hawkins.’ Another voice. ‘Try to calm down. You were dreaming. You’ve pulled out your drip.’
Hawkins stopped searching and swallowed, senses thumping, looking from face to face at the nurses standing over her bed. Slowly, her dream began to fade, the dimly lit hospital ward coming back into focus around them, her heart beat beginning to slow. She took a few deep breaths, rubbing her left hand, where the drip had torn the skin on its way out.
‘Better?’ one of the nurses asked.
Hawkins nodded, sitting patiently while they moved the cannula to her forearm and put a plaster on her hand, reassuring them again that she was fine, accepting the offer of tea just to get rid of them. They retreated, leaving her exhausted but in peace, aside from her aching body and the pejorative stare of the old lady across the ward. She checked the time, sighing when she read 02:15.
Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
He struck.
The hammer dug in, punching straight through her temple. Perfect aim. There was a dull pop but no scream, and for a second they both froze.
Then she dropped like her brain had switched off.
Bull stepped back, watching her crumple on the path. He glanced around to check if anyone had seen, but the gloomy park was empty; the road outside clear. He could disappear in the shadows and let the freezing rain begin washing her mistakes away.
But there was a noise.
Panic flared as Bull looked down. Somehow she’d survived, and was trying to drag herself away.
Had he made a mistake?
He went after her, noting the extensive blood loss and the way her legs hung limp. Death was certain now.
He caught up in a few strides and hit her again. She dropped face down, twitching, but he didn’t stop, driving the hammer in time after time. Doing it right.
At last he stopped, shaking, his breathing ragged. She lay at his feet. Not moving.
Gone.
Bull steadied himself, tucked the hammer into his coat, and walked away.
‘Whoops a daisy!’ The old man lost hold of his daughter’s wrist and she slumped into the passenger seat of his ice-gold Rover 75 estate. But his expression of mild amusement became one of admonition when he saw the resulting discomfort on her face.
‘Antonia … are you sure the doctor said you’re ready to go home?’
Hawkins looked out through the windscreen at Ealing Hospital and shuddered. ‘Yes, Dad. Would the nurse have wheeled me to the door otherwise? Now, please get us out of here.’
She’d neglected to mention the self-discharge form she had signed before her father arrived, the one that said something like ‘I understand I should stay in hospital, and I accept full responsibility for my own health, or lack thereof, as a result of my decision to leave.’
Her father made the short humming noise that meant he didn’t agree, but neither could he see any point in arguing. He stepped back, allowing her to shut the door.
She watched in the wing mirror as he pushed the wheelchair around to the back of the car and raised the tailgate. Her dad had entered that stage of life where some people entirely stopped caring how they looked and settled into a pattern of wearing whatever the hell they liked, regardless of whether they were collecting their daughter from hospital or having tea with the queen. His mustard cords and psychedelically patterned jumper might have passed for Christmas irony if it hadn’t been mid-February. The tragedy was that satire had nothing to do with it.
Behind her, Alan Hawkins placed the distended crutches on to the cardboard that protected the plastic that protected the boot carpet, and then spent a while pulling at every bolt and protrusion on the chair, in search of the release catch shown blatantly to him by the nurse not five minutes ago.
Eventually, the law of averages won and he managed to concertina the wheelchair before hauling it on its side into the boot. Then he eased the tailgate back into place and shuffled round to the driver’s side.
It was only when he sat down that Hawkins nearly insisted, despite her injuries, on driving. This was why she resorted to asking her father for help only in the most dire of situations. Almost seven billion people on the planet, and who did she get in a crisis?
Alan Hawkins was wearing slippers.
‘Why don’t you come and stay with us?’ Alan Hawkins turned off the main road into his daughter’s estate. ‘Just for a few days.’
‘It’s nothing personal, Dad; I just don’t get on with your wife.’
He smiled. ‘I know you and your mum clash sometimes, but she’d love to help. She did use to be a nurse.’
‘Really? Why doesn’t she ram that fact down everybody’s throat whenever the opportunity arises?’
‘Antonia.’ He frowned at her. ‘She’d be upset if she heard you.’
‘And that’s why I can’t stay with you guys.’ Not to mention the fact that, if she stayed with them, her mum would try to stop Hawkins from returning to work.
Tomorrow.
Her dad made his short humming noise.
They rounded the final corner and the knot in Hawkins’ stomach pulled itself tighter as the house came into view. She dragged in a long breath.
You have to face it at some point.
‘Here we are, then,’ her father announced, before embarking on a five-minute parking ballet that ended only when he involuntarily mounted the kerb at low revs and stalled the car.
The subsequent build-up to entering the house, which involved him retrieving the wheelchair from the boot, wrestling it back into shape, loading his daughter into it and edging her up the path, did nothing for Hawkins’ growing anxiety. But it wasn’t until she had to stand, in order to negotiate the step over the threshold, that the nausea really kicked in. She swayed.
‘You don’t look too well.’ Her dad left the wheelchair halfway through the door and caught her arm. ‘Do you need a bowl?’
‘No, I’m good.’ Hawkins propped herself against the wall while he dragged the chair inside and shut the front door. Then she sank into it and allowed him to push her slowly along the hall, willing the colour back into her cheeks as they passed the mirror.
She swallowed hard when they entered the front room, watching the kitchen slide into view.
The room where she’d been attacked.
‘Blimey.’ Her dad, oblivious, interrupted her anxiety. ‘Brass monkeys in here, isn’t it?’
He adjusted the thermostat, waiting for the sound of the boiler kicking in. ‘That’s better. Now, I’m under instructions from you-know-who. The deal is that if you’re having difficulties getting about, which you are, then I’m either to insist that you come and stay with us, or I have to stay here with you. So which is it?’
Hawkins groaned. She’d noticed her dad’s weekend bag in the back of the car, which meant her mum already knew which way this would go. They all understood that, once her mother decreed an either–or ruling, you were getting either–or whether you liked it or not. Proposing that Mike, a man her parents had met just a couple of times, look after her, especially when he was on shift for the next couple of days, wouldn’t cut it. And if she refused both recommended options, things would only get worse. Because that would compel her mother to intervene personally.
‘You win.’ She shook her head and pointed at the ceiling. ‘You’ll need to make up the spare room.’
‘It’s not about winn–’ He stopped in response to the frown. ‘Where are the sheets?’
‘Airing cupboard.’
‘Right, I’ll pop up and do that. You get the kettle on.’ He headed for the stairs, apparently unaware of the irony that his slippers were appropriate footwear once more.
Hawkins watched him go, mildly hurt that he hadn’t asked if she was okay first. Then it occurred to her that he probably didn’t know much about the attack. She hadn’t been exactly forthcoming, and what little he had known he’d probably forgotten. He thought her difficulties entering the house had been purely physical, and last time he’d asked about that she’d bitten him. As far as he was concerned, she was back in the chair, so she was fine.
And, actually, aside from some residual demons, why shouldn’t she be?
Fine.
Hawkins assured herself that the clunking noises emanating from upstairs meant her father wasn’t far away, and that it was impossible for the man who’d attacked her six weeks ago to repeat his actions now. She took hold of the grip rings either side of the chair and rolled herself forwards; ignoring the discomfort this caused her armpits and chest.
She crossed the threshold into the kitchen, thankful for once that her mother’s obsession with cleanliness meant there were no obvious traces of her blood on the dark floor tiles. But that didn’t stop her feeling sick.
The room was exactly as she remembered, just tidier. Every surface was clean, and she knew without looking that the cupboards and drawers would be organized enough for use in TV advertising. She was safe.
So why was her heart racing? And her cheeks wet?
She blinked the tears away, trying to steady her breathing as she rolled herself towards the bench. Just like everything else, the kettle shone. Hawkins stared at her reflection in its mirror-finish. But even her mother’s elbow grease couldn’t shift memories. And the room was infused.
She closed her eyes, immediately opening them again for fear of inviting back the trauma lurking behind her eyelids. Her attacker’s face, his hateful stare, the knife, the pain. She’d lost count of the times she’d relived those final moments. Maybe it was too soon.
She realized she was scratching and pulled her hand away from her chest. The stab wounds were healing, but nowhere near as fast as she’d have liked, and her nervous system was in tatters. Although that, ironically, was probably the main reason she was still here.
Get a grip.
She shifted forwards in the chair and reached out for the kettle. Her fingers made contact.
You can do this.
For an instant she was back there, standing, flicking open the lid, thrusting the boiling liquid at her assailant. Hearing him hiss.
‘I can’t find any sheets.’
Hawkins nearly dropped the kettle as she jerked round to see her father standing in the doorway.
‘Jesus, Dad.’
‘Sorry, love …’
Concern entered his expression. ‘Have you been crying?’
Bull renewed his grip on the scalpel, keen to maintain precision.
Where to cut next?
He glanced up at the laptop. Aside from the high-intensity lamp lighting his work, the computer screen was the only thing breaking the darkness in this small upstairs room. The image on its display was large and detailed. But it was only a guide.
He had to translate.
Bull lined up his blade and pushed the point in behind the ear, running it carefully down and along the jaw line. Over and over, each stroke lighter and more exact, reshaping his silent subject.
Satisfied, Bull put the knife down and flexed his fingers. He’d been at this all evening. His hand would probably pack up soon, but he was nearly done. Just another half-hour.
He switched his attention to the eyes, using the razor point of the knife to strip away one fragile layer at a time. Digging out the pupils with delicate care.
Then he picked away the offcuts and cleared the mess that had built up on the table beneath. Without debris in the way, it was obvious his creation was nearly finished. Just the mouth needed work.
He ran a fingertip lightly across the scalpel’s edge.
Blunt.
Bull eased the worn blade off the handle and dropped it in the bin. He took a new one from the pack, seated it and spent another ten minutes shaving the lips and chin. Finally, he sat back, assessing his work. His skill was improving; the likeness to the photograph on the computer screen not bad at all.
He picked up the carving and placed it with the others before stepping back to survey his collection of lime wood figures – one for every life cut short.
His memorial.
Their numbers were growing.
But there were many more to come.