Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Part Two
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part Three
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
Acknowledgements
Read on for an extract from Daisy in Chains
About the Author
Also by Sharon Bolton
Copyright
NOW YOU SEE ME
A savage murder on London’s streets, 120 years to the day since Jack the Ripper began his reign of terror. Lacey Flint hunts a psychopath whose infamous role model has never been found . . .
‘Probably the best thriller that you’ll read all year’ Choice Magazine
DEAD SCARED
A spate of suicides at a prestigious university, each more horrific than the last. The only way to find the killer is to send someone undercover: Lacey Flint becomes the bait . . .
‘Sharon Bolton is hot property in crime fiction right now’ Stylist
IF SNOW HADN’T FALLEN (A SHORT STORY)
Tensions come to the boil when a young Muslim man is brutally murdered by a masked gang. There’s just one witness: DC Lacey Flint.
‘Bolton knows precisely how to ratchet up the tension and tell a cracking story’ Guardian
LIKE THIS, FOR EVER
Twelve-year-old Barney Roberts is obsessed with a series of local murders. His neighbour DC Lacey Flint joins the hunt for the killer . . .
‘Spine-tingling’ Lisa Gardner
A DARK AND TWISTED TIDE
Police Constable Lacey Flint thinks she’s safe. Living on the river, working on the river, swimming in the river, she’s never been happier. It can’t last . . .
‘Bolton’s latest gripper. Suffused with menace’ The Times
HERE BE DRAGONS (A SHORT STORY)
Mark Joesbury is risking everything to stop a deadly attack on the capital. But it’s not just London he’s fighting to save: the terrorists have also got the woman he loves, DC Lacey Flint . . .
‘Bolton rules the world of the psychological thriller’ Huffington Post
SACRIFICE
Tora Hamilton, a newcomer to the remote island of Shetland, discovers a woman’s body preserved in the mud of her field. Who is she, and why is Tora so unwelcome here?
‘If she carries on like this she will have worshippers in their millions’ The Times
AWAKENING
A series of unnatural events are occurring in Clara Benning’s village. The reclusive vet discovers a connection to an abandoned house, and a fifty-year-old tragedy the villagers would rather forget . . .
‘This book writhes and glides and slithers its way into the reader’s psyche’ Guardian
BLOOD HARVEST
Harry, the new vicar in town, is subjected to a series of menacing events. What secret is his parish hiding from him, and who is the young girl lingering in the graveyard?
‘Well-crafted, original and spooky’ Daily Mail
LITTLE BLACK LIES
Living in a small, island community, Catrin can’t escape the woman who destroyed her life. How long before revenge becomes irresistible?
‘Creeps under your skin and doesn’t let you go’ Paula Hawkins
DAISY IN CHAINS
Hamish Wolfe is handsome, charismatic – and a convicted murderer. He wants bestselling true-crime writer Maggie Rose to prove his innocence. But will she be able to resist his charms?
‘Utterly suspenseful. A terrific, twisted read’ Paula Daly
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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www.penguin.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies
whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Sharon Bolton 2013
Extract from Daisy in Chains © Sharon Bolton 2016
Sharon Bolton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446487839
ISBN 9780593069165
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
For Hal, who peeps out at me through every child in this book; and for his mates, who gamely played along.
‘Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway?’
Dracula, Bram Stoker
‘THEY SAY IT’S like slicing through warm butter, when you cut into young flesh.’
For a second, the counsellor was still. ‘And is it?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s complete rubbish.’
‘So, what is it like?’
‘Well, granted, the first part’s easy. The parting of the skin, that first rush of blood. The knife practically does it for you, as long as it’s sharp enough. But after that first cut you have to work pretty hard.’
‘I imagine so.’
‘The body’s fighting you, for one thing. From the moment you cut, it’s trying to heal itself. The blood starts to clot, the artery or vein or whatever it is you’ve opened is trying to close and the skin is producing that icky, yellowy stuff that eventually becomes a scab. It’s really not easy to go beyond that first cut.’
‘It seems to be largely about the first cut for you, would that be fair to say?’
The patient nodded in agreement. ‘Definitely. By the time the knife touches skin, the noise in my head is close to unbearable – I feel like my skull’s about to blow apart. But then there’s that first drop of blood, and the next, and then it’s just streaming out.’
The patient was leaning forward eagerly now, as though the act of confession, once begun, was unstoppable.
‘I’ll tell you what it’s like – it’s like that first heavy snowfall in winter, when suddenly everything’s beautiful and the world falls silent. Well, blood does exactly the same thing as snow. Suddenly, the pain means nothing, all that noise in my head has gone away. Somehow, with that first cut, I’ve gone to another place entirely. A place where, finally, there’s peace.’
Gently, almost apologetically, the counsellor closed her notebook. ‘We’re going to have to stop now,’ she said. ‘But thank you, Lacey. I think, at last, we’re getting somewhere.’
THE SADNESS WAS inside him always. A dull pressure against the front of his chest, a bitter taste in his mouth, a hovering sigh, just beyond his next breath. Most of the time he could pretend it wasn’t there, he’d grown so used to it over the years, but the second he felt his focus shift from the immediate on to the important there it was again, like the creature lurking beneath the bed. Deep, unchanging sadness.
Barney waited for Big Ben to strike the fourth note of eight o’clock before pushing the letter into the postbox. The sadness faded a little, he’d done everything right. This time could work.
Important task over with, he felt himself relax and start to notice things again. Someone had tied a poster to the nearest lamppost. The photograph of the missing boys, ten-year-old twins Jason and Joshua Barlow, took up most of the A4 sheet of card. Both had dark-blond hair and blue eyes. One twin was smiling in the picture, his new adult teeth uncomfortably large in his mouth; the other was the serious one of the pair. Both were described as 1.40m tall and slim for their age. They looked exactly like thousands of other boys living in South London. Just like the two, possibly three, who had gone missing before them.
Someone was watching. Barney always knew when that was happening. He’d get a feeling – nothing physical, never the prickle between the shoulder blades or the cold burn of ice on the back of his neck, just an overwhelming sense of someone else’s presence. Someone whose attention was fixed on him. He’d feel it, look up, and there would be his dad, with that odd, thoughtful smile on his face, as though he were looking at something wonderful and intriguing, not just his eleven-year-old son. Or his teacher, Mrs Green, with the raised eyebrows that said he’d been off on one of his daydreams again.
Barney turned and through the window of the newsagent’s saw Mr Kapur tapping his watch. Barney kicked off and in a steady glide reached the shop door.
‘Late to be out, Barney,’ said Mr Kapur, as he’d taken to doing over the last few weeks. Barney opened the upright cool cabinet and reached for a Coke.
‘Fifty pence minus ten per cent staff discount,’ said Mr Kapur, as he always did. ‘Forty-five pence, please, Barney.’
Barney handed over his money and tucked the can in his pocket. ‘You going straight home now?’ asked Mr Kapur, his last words drowned by the bell as Barney pulled open the door.
Barney smiled at the elderly man. ‘See you in the morning, Mr Kapur,’ he said, as he pulled the zip of his coat a little higher.
There was a fierce wind coming off the river as Barney picked up speed on his roller blades and travelled east along pavements still gleaming with rain. The wind brought the smell of diesel and damp with it and Barney had a sense, as he always did, of the river reaching out to him. He imagined it escaping its confining banks, finding underground passageways, drains, sewers, and seeping its way up into the city. He could never be near the river without thinking of black water flowing beneath the street, an invasion so subtle, so cautious, that no one except him would notice until it was too late. He’d confided his fear once to his dad, who’d laughed. ‘I think you’re overlooking some basic laws of physics, Barney,’ he’d said. ‘Water doesn’t flow uphill.’
Barney hadn’t mentioned it again, but he knew perfectly well that sometimes water did flow uphill. He’d seen pictures of London submerged by floodwater, read accounts of how high spring tides had coincided with strong downstream flows and the river’s cage had been unable to contain it. Given a chance of freedom, the water had leaped from its banks and roared its way through London like an angry mob.
It could happen. There had been snow in the Chiltern Hills. It would be melting, the thaw water making its way down through the smaller tributaries, reaching the Thames, which would be getting fuller and faster as it neared the capital city. Barney picked up speed, wondering how fast he’d have to skate to outrun floodwater.
When Barney reached the community centre the building looked deserted. No lights, so even the caretaker had gone, which meant it had to be after nine o’clock. With a familiar feeling of dread, he looked at his watch. He’d said goodnight to Mr Kapur just after eight o’clock. The newsagent’s was a ten-minute skate away. It had happened again. Time, inexplicably, had been lost.
A voice from beyond the wall, the sound of wheels on iron. The others were waiting for him in the yard, but suddenly Barney wanted nothing so much as to go straight home. Sooner or later – sooner if he was smart, and he was, wasn’t he? Everyone agreed that Barney was clever, a bit weird sometimes, but bright – he would have to tell someone about these missing hours of his.
A low laugh. He thought he heard his own name. Barney pushed the worry to the back of his mind and carried on round the corner. The community centre had once been a small Victorian factory. Surrounding it were various outbuildings and a tarmac yard, all encased within a high brick wall topped with iron railings. Inside the main building were a library, a crèche for pre-school children, an after-school club and a youth club. Barney and his friends hung out at the youth club several nights a week, but it was after the centre closed that the place became their own.
In the alleyway at the back, Barney reached for the loose railing and got ready to pull himself up.
In this city, someone is always watching.
What was that doing in his head right now? Why, now, should he remember the talk they’d had at school from the local community police officer? She’d been talking about how every Londoner could expect to be caught on CCTV several hundred times a day. But Barney knew for a fact there were no cameras in the alley and the surrounding streets, or overlooking the centre. It was one of the reasons his gang hung out here.
He ran his eyes along the row of houses opposite, looking for the light in the window, the undrawn curtains, the gleam of eyes that would confirm what he knew – that someone was watching. Nothing.
Except they were, and with that certain knowledge came a knocking in his chest as if his heart had suddenly moved up a gear. OK, here he was, in the city where five boys his age had disappeared in as many weeks, on his own in the exact part of London where they had all lived, and someone he couldn’t see was watching him.
Barney scrambled through the gap in the railings, skates still on his feet, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, but adrenaline and determination just about kept him the right way up. He rolled forward. Right, which side of the wall were the eyes? Street side or factory side? Cut off from him by nine feet of solid Victorian brickwork and iron railing, or trapped inside with him? The contents of his stomach turned to something like cold lead as he realized he might just have made the biggest mistake of what was going to be a very short life.
He could no longer hear the others. For now it was just an eleven-year-old boy, a very high wall, and an unseen pair of eyes.
Directly ahead, between Barney and the main yard, was the Indian village: five small wigwams in which the younger kids played during the day. Even on a normal night, Barney couldn’t look at them without imagining someone – maybe a toddler left behind by an absent-minded parent – peeping out at him from the blackness. He never liked being near the Indian village at night, even without … he checked each dark interior in turn before moving on. Nothing.
Nothing that he could see.
Just beyond the wigwams was one of the murals that had been painted on the inside of the perimeter walls. Scarlet-clad pirates, their sights on distant treasure, clung to the rails of a galleon on a troubled sea. In the daytime, the murals were faded, the paint peeling in places. During the hours of darkness, the tangerine glow of the streetlights brought them to life. The green forests around the gates had depth and a sense of secrets lurking behind giant trees, the starry night sky beyond the skateboard ramp seemed endless. Without the sun’s harsh scrutiny, even the pirates seemed to be watching him.
At last, from the corner of the factory building, he could peer round into the quadrangle that was the main part of the yard. The relief almost hurt. At the top of the skateboard ramp sat four still figures. His best mate, Harvey, then Sam and Hatty, two kids in Harvey’s class, and finally Lloyd, who was a couple of years older. Against the streetlamp light they seemed entirely clad in black. Barney caught a gleam of eyes as one of them looked round. He could also see the tiny red glow of a couple of cigarettes. At the sight of his gang, doing what they always did, looking completely relaxed, Barney started to calm down too. For once, his instincts had cried wolf.
A sudden noise, loud and shrill, blared directly above his head. Then someone jumped down, grabbing him around the throat.
THE CHILDREN WERE beautiful. They lay curled on their sides, spooned together. The fingers of the boy in front looked as though they were about to twitch and stretch, as sunlight and his internal body clock told him it was time to wake. Even in the flat light of the tent, he didn’t look dead. Neither did his brother, snuggled up behind him, one arm slung carelessly across his sibling’s chest.
‘Boss!’
Dana started. Her gloved hand was reaching out towards the closest boy’s forehead, where a damp lock of hair had fallen forward. She’d been about to brush it out of his eyes, the way a mother would. She still wanted to – to smooth it back over his head, pull covers up over their shoulders and keep the night air from their skin, bend and brush her lips over the soft cheeks.
Stupid. She didn’t have children, had never known maternal feelings in her life. That they should kick in now, that a couple of dead, ten-year-old boys should be the ones to awaken them.
‘Boss,’ repeated the other living occupant of the tent, a heavy-set man with thinning red hair and an indistinct chin-line. ‘Tide’s coming in fast. We need to get them out of here.’
Detective Inspector Dana Tulloch, of Lewisham’s Major Investigation Team, let Detective Sergeant Neil Anderson help her to her feet. They moved out of the police tent and into the smell of salt, rotting vegetation and petrol fumes that was the night air by the tidal Thames. The waiting crowd on Tower Bridge wriggled in anticipation. Light flashed as someone took their photograph.
As she and Anderson stepped away, others took their place, moving quickly. In a little over thirty minutes, the area would be under several feet of water. The two detectives walked up the beach towards the embankment wall.
‘Right under Tower Bridge,’ said Dana, looking up at the massive steel structure. ‘One of the most iconic landmarks in London, not to mention one of the busiest spots. What is he thinking of ?’
‘He’s a cheeky bastard,’ agreed Anderson.
Dana sighed. ‘Who was first on the scene?’ she asked.
‘Pete,’ Anderson replied, looking around. ‘He was here a minute ago.’
Dana watched as more SOCOs made their way gingerly down Horselydown Old Stairs, the slimy concrete steps that offered the only access point to this stretch of the riverbank.
‘He’s killing them faster, Neil,’ she said. ‘We’ve never found them this quickly before.’
‘I know, Boss. Here’s Pete.’
Detective Constable Pete Stenning, thirty-one years old, tall and good looking with dark curly hair, was jogging lightly down the steps to join them.
‘What can you tell us, Pete?’ she asked, when he was close enough.
‘They were spotted at 20.15 by the local florist,’ said Stenning. ‘I was with him just now. He’s had a busy day, what with it being Valentine’s Day, and he’s got a big wedding on tomorrow so he and a couple of assistants were working late. He needed a fag and smoking in the street is frowned upon so he tends to wander down the lane and up Horselydown steps. Finds it soothing to watch the river, he says, and there’s shelter if it’s pissing it down. His words, not mine.’
‘And he spotted them?’
‘There was just enough light from the Brewhouse behind and the bridge in front, he says, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at till he went down to the beach. And before you ask, he saw nothing else. The two women in the shop confirm his story.’
‘Any thoughts on how they were brought here?’ asked Anderson.
‘Could have come by water,’ said Stenning, ‘but personally, I doubt it. This is a bloody treacherous place to bring a boat in at anything other than very high water.’ He gestured over towards the river’s edge. ‘There’s the remains of a Victorian embankment just under the water there,’ he went on. ‘If your boat hits that at any speed, chances are you’re going down.’
‘Road, then?’ said Dana.
‘More likely,’ said Stenning. ‘One thing you should see,’ he went on. ‘Just a bit further under the bridge.’
Dana and Anderson followed Stenning into the shadows beneath Tower Bridge, trying to ignore the craning necks and intense stares just a few feet above them. Then all attention switched from the police officers to the small black bags being carried out of the police tent. The boys were being taken away. A few outraged cries broke out, as though the police on the beach were responsible for what had happened to the children.
Beneath the bridge, uniformed officers with torches were still combing the short stretch of bank that remained accessible. A small area had been cordoned off with police tape. Stenning shone his torch on to it.
‘Footprints?’ asked Anderson.
‘Large wellington-type boot,’ said Stenning. ‘Looks to be the same tread as the ones we found at Bermondsey. Thing is, there would be no need for him to come here. Look.’
He was pointing back towards the stairs.
‘He carried them down the steps, then a few yards along the beach to where we found them. He’d want to get it over with as quickly as possible. And yet he walks all the way over here, a detour of – what – eight metres, to leave a footprint.’
‘On the only stretch of sand I can see on this beach,’ said Dana.
‘My thoughts exactly, Ma’am,’ said Stenning. ‘On the rocks and gravel, he wouldn’t have left any prints. So he comes over to a patch of sand that, conveniently, happens to be beneath the bridge and sheltered from the rain. He wanted us to find it.’
‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Anderson.
‘Who’s that, Sarge? Him or me?’
‘Both. You OK to accompany the bodies?’
Stenning agreed that he was and then set off to follow the mortuary van as it took the boys’ bodies away.
‘I’ll get on with the door-to-door, if it’s alright with you,’ said Anderson.
Dana nodded. Anderson invariably got twitchy if forced to keep still for more than a few minutes during an investigation.
‘Somebody will have seen something,’ he went on. ‘Even if they don’t know it yet.’ He turned to go, then half turned back again. ‘What’s up, Boss?’ he asked her.
She ought to tell him nothing, that she was fine. The team needed her to be fine.
‘This one scares me, Neil.’
She saw his head draw back, his eyes narrow. ‘You’re the DI who caught the Ripper,’ he said. ‘My money’s on him being scared of you.’
Anderson loved to say what he thought was the right thing. Even when the right thing was an obvious cliché.
‘Mark and Lacey caught the Ripper,’ she said. ‘I just got the credit. And I was never as scared by the Ripper as I am by this one. Four boys dead in two months. Another one still missing. And he’s speeding up. He’s taking them faster and he’s killing them faster. How long have we got before the next one?’
AS LONG FINGERS closed around his neck, Barney dropped his Coke can, the wheels of his skates slid and he almost fell. Two strong hands kept him upright.
‘Steady, Barney Boy. Don’t piss your pants.’
Aw, shit-shit-shit! Every nerve-ending singing, sweat breaking out all over his body, Barney wondered if being proved right was any consolation for being made to look an absolute tit. What the hell was Jorge playing at?
‘Prat,’ he managed.
Jorge, his best mate’s older brother and the gang’s undisputed leader, had been hiding on the roof of the bikeshed. To cover up the fact that his face would be bright red and that he’d snorted snot out of his nose, Barney bent to pick up the now-dented Coke can. ‘How long have you been up there?’ he asked, when he’d wiped his nose on his sleeve and straightened up.
‘Couple of minutes.’ Jorge didn’t even bother trying not to grin. ‘Spotted you at the corner.’
OK, deep breaths. It was dark, maybe no one would see the sweat on his forehead. He hadn’t wet himself, thank God. ‘You been rehearsing?’ he asked, in an attempt to sound normal.
Jorge nodded. ‘Mum texted me to say I had to collect Harvey on the way home. Come on.’
Leaping on his skateboard and kicking off, Jorge set off towards the others, leaving in his wake a sense of pent-up energy that was unusual, even for him. Harvey had been complaining lately that Jorge came back from rehearsals completely hyper. That it took him several hours just to calm down. If he pulled tricks on a regular basis like the one he’d just played, Barney could understand Harvey being pissed off.
The rest of the gang watched as first Jorge and then Barney made their way up the ramp towards them.
‘Your hair’s green,’ said Hatty, looking at Jorge.
Jorge tossed his head and ruffled his short, usually silver-blond spikes. ‘Hairdressing wanted to try it out,’ he said, as though it were perfectly normal for ‘hairdressing’ to take an interest in a fourteen-year-old boy’s hair. ‘Green hair to match the green costume. They’re going to stick leaves in it as well. The other two are well pissed off because they both have dark hair and it just doesn’t look as good on them.’
Jorge wanted to be an actor. A couple of months previously, he’d successfully auditioned for a West End show. To his annoyance, though, because he was only fourteen, he had to share the part with two other boys. Boys who, if Jorge were to be believed, didn’t have a fraction of his talent.
‘Did I miss anything?’ Barney asked, conscious he should have arrived an hour ago.
‘Nah,’ Harvey told him. ‘Lloyd won the darts tournament, but then Sam threw one at Tom Roger’s arse and we were kindly invited to leave.’
‘Can’t leave you lot alone for five minutes,’ said Jorge.
‘Did you get banned?’ asked Barney.
‘They said they didn’t want to see us for the rest of the week,’ said Lloyd, a large-eyed, dark-haired boy who was in the same class as Jorge. ‘Then they said we had to go straight home and not hang around outside.’
‘Like this?’ said Barney.
‘Yes,’ agreed Lloyd, his brown eyes wide and serious. ‘Hanging around like this would be very wrong.’
Hatty got up without a word and set off down the ramp. With the possible exception of Barney, she was the best blader of the group. She raced up the other side and stopped herself at the crash barrier. Lloyd, Sam and the two brothers were looking at a bent wheel on Harvey’s skateboard. Only Barney saw Hatty’s head lift like a dog’s that had just caught a scent. She was looking at something in the middle distance. After a few seconds of staring, she turned and sped back to the boys.
‘Guess who’s back,’ she said in a low voice.
The others all turned, some looking at Hatty, others trying to see what she’d seen.
‘Where?’
‘You’re dreaming again, Hats.’
Barney looked past the factory outbuildings that were used for storage now, beyond the wall and railings that surrounded the property, into the streets of South London. Terraced houses on the other side of the road, beyond them the huge abandoned house with its ornate brickwork and blank, black windows. He stopped blinking, stopped looking for anything in particular and waited, letting the focus of his vision shift, until he didn’t see the outline of buildings, the line of the pavement, the skyline. As he knew they would, the pictures in front of him began to break down, to lose their structure and reduce themselves to their simplest form. He waited for the patterns to emerge. And then the discrepancy was obvious. There she was, her face pale against the brick wall, her dark coat smoother, reflecting more light, than her surroundings. He wondered how long she’d been there this time, and whether the being-watched feeling he’d had earlier had been entirely down to Jorge. He blinked and what he could see became normal again.
‘She’s behind the red car,’ he said. ‘You can just see her head and shoulders.’
‘Weirdo!’
‘What she want, anyway?’
‘Bleedin’ perv, spying on kids. I think we should call the filth.’
‘She is the filth,’ said Barney. ‘She’s a detective.’
Silence, then, ‘Are you sure?’ asked Jorge.
Barney nodded. ‘She lives next door to us,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Lacey, I think.’
‘So what’s she doing? Keeping an eye on you?’
‘We hardly know her,’ said Barney, knowing he’d be in big trouble if Lacey told his dad where he went at night.
Jorge stood and stretched his neck, staring directly at the detective. She carried on watching. Jorge’s upper lip began to curl.
‘Shit!’ said Hatty, in a shrill voice.
‘What?’ The others turned from the detective to the girl in their midst.
‘Lost my earring,’ said Hatty, pushing back her hair to reveal her tiny ears. One had a small gold stud in the shape of a leaf. The other was empty.
‘Keep still,’ said Barney, reaching out. He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything as soft as Hatty’s hair, except perhaps the fur on the long-haired rabbits at the pet shop. Touching it sent a sharp sensation right down into the pit of his stomach, making him want to squirm on the spot. Got it! The tiny piece of gold was between his fingers and he dropped it into Hatty’s outstretched hand. Not the earring, just an integral part of it.
‘That’s just the butterfly,’ said Hatty. ‘Shit, it could be anywhere.’
‘Jump up and down,’ instructed Jorge. ‘It’s probably caught on something.’
As Hatty jiggled, making the steel beneath them twang and groan, Barney stood up and rolled down the ramp. Keeping his eyes down, he made his way up and down it several times. No sign of the lost earring.
‘I have to go,’ said Sam. ‘I still haven’t done that friggin’ field-trip write-up.’
Hatty announced that she was leaving too.
‘Me and Harvey will walk you,’ said Jorge, as the brothers rolled down the ramp to join Barney. ‘There’s a perv around, remember?’
‘A perv that kills boys,’ replied Hatty, whose face was still twisted with disappointment at the loss of the earring. ‘What you trying to say?’
‘And just what part of “Bring your brother straight home” did you not understand?’
The gang practically jumped in unison. They’d been so fixated on the detective watching them from beyond the gates that they’d completely failed to notice the other woman, who’d appeared in the yard without any of them, even Barney, seeing her.
‘How did you get in?’ said Harvey, turning to check the gates.
‘Jorge weighs more than I do,’ the small, silver-haired woman replied, ‘and is an inch taller. If he can squeeze through a gap in the railings, so can I.’ She looked round the yard, at the high walls, the dark building, the gates. ‘Why do I get the feeling you lot aren’t supposed to be in here?’
‘You said you were working,’ said Jorge.
Jorge and Harvey’s mother was a freelance photographer. Sometimes she stayed out all night, on call at the offices of a news agency, and Harvey and Jorge were left in the care of their elderly grandmother. Their dad, who’d been a war correspondent for the BBC, had died before Harvey was born.
‘The job’s over,’ replied his mother. ‘And so is this little party. Goodnight, everyone. Straight home now.’
The brothers and Hatty said their goodbyes before making their way across the yard behind Jorge and Harvey’s mum.
‘You coming?’ Lloyd asked Barney.
Barney nodded. ‘My dad’ll be on my case if I’m much later,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to have a quick look for Hatty’s earring. See you.’
Alone, Barney made one last circle of the yard, steering clear of the Indian village. The rain of earlier had made for a narrow drain that ran around the edge. Barney moved slowly, following the flow of the rainwater, until the pipe disappeared underground and an iron grille held back debris. Then he stopped blinking and let his eyes lose their focus. The patterns always took longer at night, but after a moment or two they came. And there it was. Clinging to the underside of a Mars wrapper. He bent, picked the wrapper from the drain and rescued Hatty’s earring.
Beaming, Barney looked round, having for a moment completely forgotten that the others had gone. He’d never been alone in the community centre before. He hadn’t realized quite how high the walls were, or how dark the shadows beneath them became when there was no one around to distract him. He was looking directly at the painted face of a long-haired girl on the opposite wall. She sat on a rock, in the middle of the ocean. She was smiling at him, not in a pleasant way, and her strange green eyes seemed to say that she knew a secret, and she was only biding her time before she told.
A sudden rustle behind him made him jump. The wind, which normally couldn’t make it past the walls, was blowing a crisp packet around. Time to go. He left the yard and skated round to the main street. Maybe he’d get a chance to give the earring back to Hatty when they were alone. He’d reach out and gently push it into the hole in her left ear.
‘Barney!’
He jumped again as though he’d been shot. He hadn’t noticed the policewoman approaching, had forgotten about her completely.
‘Hi,’ she said, when she’d reached him. ‘You on your way home?’
He nodded.
‘We should go together,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty dark.’
‘OK,’ he agreed. He could move at a walking pace if he wanted to, although in fairness, she didn’t hang around. She was taller than he, and thin, with long hair scraped back into a ponytail. She never seemed to care what she looked like. On the other hand, she always seemed to look OK.
‘Are you on duty?’ he asked after they’d walked halfway down the street.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not working at the moment. I’m on sick leave.’
He sneaked a sideways glance. She didn’t look sick. For one thing, she went out running every morning, he heard her leave as he got ready to go to the newsagent’s and often they’d both get back to the house at the same time. Sometimes he’d see her riding off on her bike, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. And in the evenings, she often left the house on foot, coming back hours later.
They’d reached the corner and Barney had a second’s gratitude that he wasn’t on his own. This was the only bit of the journey home that bothered him, having to pass the old house. Even with the security fencing, even with all the ground-floor doors and windows boarded up, he couldn’t help the feeling that someone could be in there, waiting to jump out.
‘This house gives me the creeps,’ he said.
‘You should see it on the inside,’ she replied. ‘Kids and homeless people used to break in before all the windows were properly boarded up. We used to get called out to it quite a lot.’
They turned the corner and left the old house behind.
‘Barney, it’s not really any of my business, I know,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure it’s very safe for you and your mates to be out after dark at the moment.’
‘We stay together,’ replied Barney. ‘We look out for each other. And Jorge and Lloyd are nearly fifteen.’
He waited for Lacey to point out that he’d been alone when she’d met him and got ready to respond that he was fast. That no one could catch him on foot once he got some speed up.
‘Five boys of your age have gone missing recently,’ she went on. ‘None of them lived very far from here.’
‘What happens to them?’ he asked her. ‘The TV never says how they died. Do you think the Barlow twins are dead as well?’
‘I hope not,’ she said, in a voice that told him she was pretty certain they were.
ALONE ON THE rapidly dwindling beach, Dana walked to the water’s edge. Just over a year ago, when she’d moved to London from her native Scotland, she’d fallen in love with the river at night. She loved the way it curled its way between the buildings like a sleek black snake, mirroring only what was beautiful about the city – its lights, its architecture, its colour. Now, the spot around Tower Bridge would always remind her of two small, pale bodies, two boys who should have run squealing along this beach, not been carried from it in body bags. She took her phone from her pocket.
‘Hey,’ said a deep male voice with a South London accent.
‘Hi. Where are you?’
A pause. ‘Just in my car. Parked, not driving. What’s up?’
‘It was them. The Barlow twins. As we knew it would be, I suppose.’
A whispered curse. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m on my way to tell the parents. Mark, their mother …’
Another pause. ‘Want me to come?’
Dana smiled to herself, shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine. What are you up to anyway?’
A sigh came down the line. ‘Dana, there are some things it’s better you don’t know.’
‘Enough said, I suppose.’
Silence.
‘What’s up?’
‘I shouldn’t say this,’ said Dana. ‘I wouldn’t to anyone else. I haven’t the faintest shred of—’
‘Dana, just say it.’
‘I think it’s a woman.’
Silence for a heartbeat, then, ‘Oh?’
‘No sexual abuse, Mark. No physical abuse of any kind, except the wound that kills them. Their bodies are perfect and we find them curled up like they’re asleep. Just looking at them – oh, I can’t explain it, but they inspire such love. I know it sounds stupid but I think the killer loves them, in her own way. I don’t think she wants to hurt them, I think she can’t help herself. I think maybe she lost her own son at that age, and something is making her re-enact it with proxies.’
‘Anything to back this up, other than what your gut is telling you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then the chances are you’re having the normal reaction of any woman your age confronted with dead kids, and you’re projecting what you feel on to the killer.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Not done yet. On the other hand, as theories go, it’s not completely off the wall. You can soon run a check on boys of that age who’ve died in London in recent years. If any died of extensive blood loss, if any of the mothers have had unusual difficulties coping. It’s a lead.’
‘Yeah, I can get that started tonight. Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks, Mark.’
Dana disconnected the line and heard a lapping sound at her feet. In the minute or so that she’d been talking, the water had crept closer. She took a step back and stumbled, then turned round and found herself walking faster than was sensible. The lights had been taken away, most of the people had gone from the beach and from the bridge, and she really needed to watch her step. Miss your footing on one of these beaches at night, hit your head as the tide crept its way in, and it could be the end of you.
Only when she’d reached the first step that wasn’t encrusted with river-weed did Dana feel her heartbeat begin to slow down. She turned back, one last time. By this time, it was impossible to tell where the beach ended and the water began. She could still hear it though, the soft, whispering sound it made as it crept towards her.
‘WILL YOU BE working on the murders when you go back?’ Barney asked Lacey, as they turned into the road where they both lived. Lacey looked down at the boy, only a few years away from becoming a man, and yet whose face was so fresh, whose skin so clear and whose thought processes so blindingly obvious. He was thinking that his stock with his gang of mates would soar if he had an inside track on a murder investigation. Especially one involving kids. People were invariably most interested in murders when they were potential victims themselves.
She was almost sorry to disappoint him. ‘No, I don’t work on murders,’ she said. ‘My job isn’t anything like that exciting.’
She could see him watching, waiting for her to tell him what her job was, hoping it would be something like Drugs, Vice or the Flying Squad. But how could she explain to a boy she barely knew that she didn’t think she would ever work as a police officer again?
‘You and your mates are good,’ she said. ‘I’ve watched you a couple of times now. If the light catches you the right way, especially against the mural with stars on it, you look like you’re flying.’
‘My mates are scared of you,’ he said.
The words seemed to take them both by surprise. Barney’s lips were clenched tight and he had an oh shit look in his eyes.
‘Are you?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said after a second. ‘But then, I knew you before.’
Before. This child, whom she’d spoken to less than a dozen times, could remember what she’d been like before. Jesus, even she couldn’t remember that any more.
Barney had stopped moving. ‘He’s here again.’ His voice had lowered, giving a hint of the man’s that was to come in a few years, and something about its tone put her on full alert. She stopped, too.
‘Who’s here?’ she asked. Two middle-aged women were walking away from them further up the street. There was no one at Barney’s front door.
‘The man that watches you.’
Lacey wondered at the complexity of the human heart that could feel fear, misery and joy, all at the same time. All with the same root cause. ‘What man?’ she asked, although she knew perfectly well.
‘The one who sits in his car outside your house,’ the boy replied. ‘Who knocks on your door a lot.’
‘Where is he?’ she asked him. ‘Don’t point or look, just tell me.’
The kid was bright, he did exactly that. ‘He’s in a green car on the left-hand side of the road about six – no, seven – cars away from us.’
So strong, the temptation to look for the car, to make sure he was right. ‘How on earth did you spot that?’
Barney shrugged, looked uncomfortable. ‘I just see things,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, you just see things? I wouldn’t even have known there was a green car that far down the street, but you not only see the car, you see a man sitting inside it, in the dark.’
He sighed. ‘The colours of the cars are reflected in the water on the road,’ he said. ‘There’s a silver one, a black one, red, two more silver, white van, then his green one.’
He couldn’t see the line of parked cars any more. She was blocking his view. If he was right, it was extraordinary. Incredible powers of observation and recall.
‘The streetlights are shining through the cars,’ he went on. ‘The light comes straight through most of them, but in the green one there’s something that gets in its way. A dark, solid shape, which can only be a largeish head and shoulders. A man, sitting inside a green car. It’s obvious.’
‘I think we need to get you working for the Met,’ said Lacey.
His face softened. ‘I’ve always been good at finding things,’ he said. ‘When I was a kid, I used to find four-leaf clovers in the grass. My mum collected them in a box for me. I’ve still got them. If you lose anything – you know, jewellery and stuff – just give me a ring. I’ll probably find it.’
‘I have very little jewellery,’ said Lacey. ‘But I could use a four-leaf clover, next time you find one.’
‘I don’t really see them any more,’ he said, taking her seriously. ‘I grew out of that. I see other things now. Lost things.’
They crossed the road and stopped at Barney’s front door. Neither of them had looked back at the green car but Barney’s eyes couldn’t settle. ‘Are you worried about him?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘No, we sort of work together. Actually, he’s more of a friend.’
A look altogether too mature for an eleven-year-old appeared on his face. A friend? Who hung around outside her flat, banging on the door because she wouldn’t answer his telephone calls?
‘He’s worried about me,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been ill, you see. I just don’t want to talk to anyone right now.’
The too-grown-up look disappeared, to be replaced by one that was all kid. ‘Except me,’ he said, smiling at her.
It was surprisingly easy to smile back. ‘Yeah, except you.’
Lacey was about to wish Barney goodnight when she thought to glance up at the house. All the windows were in darkness. There wasn’t even a light in the hallway.
‘Is your dad home?’ she asked him. It was after half nine. Kids of his age, mature or not, shouldn’t be on their own that late. If someone reported it to her at the station, she’d be duty bound to check it out.
‘Probably,’ said Barney. ‘He may have nipped out. Or he could be in his study. It’s at the back of the house, so you wouldn’t see a light.’
He couldn’t make eye contact any more. He was lying. He knew perfectly well his father wasn’t in the house.
‘Do you want me to come and sit with you till he gets back?’ she asked, knowing it would keep the occupant of the green car at bay a little longer. Maybe he’d even give up and go home.
Barney shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘He’s probably in. I’m just going to go to bed.’
‘Do you have a phone?’
He pulled it from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you cut yourself ?’ she asked him, holding back from taking it.
A look of panic, as sharp and unexpected as a slap, crossed his face. He looked down quickly, as though noticing for the first time that his fingers were smeared with something that looked a lot like blood.
‘Yuck!’ He wiped his hands backwards and forwards on his jacket, a look of extreme distaste on his face. Then he shuddered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just something I must have touched.’
Lacey smiled, took the phone and tapped both her mobile and landline numbers into his contacts list. ‘Just in case you need me,’ she told him. He nodded, unlocked his front door and turned to say goodnight.
‘Wash your hands before you eat anything,’ she called. He was looking over her shoulder, at the line of parked cars in the road.
‘I expect he’ll be knocking soon,’ he said, before disappearing inside.
THE HOUSE WAS a mess as usual. Barney looked round at the supper remains all over the granite worktop, the skewed window blind, his dad’s sweater abandoned on a stool, two drawers not quite shut, one cupboard door wide open. Somehow, the rule that said grown-ups were supposed to tidy up after their kids had skipped the Roberts’ house.
He turned on the hot tap and ran it over his hands. He hadn’t cut himself, he was pretty certain he hadn’t, but that icky stuff on his hands had looked, for a second, like blood. He soaped and rinsed them several times before getting to work on the kitchen. Tidiness had been important to his mum; it was one of the few things he could remember about her.
At the kitchen sink, Barney raised the blind to straighten it. Light in the garden next door told him that Lacey was in her conservatory at the back of her small flat.
Lacey could help him find his mum.
The dishes done, Barney let the water drain away. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it before. The police tracked down missing people all the time. But if he told anyone what he was doing, he’d jinx it and it would fail. Somehow he knew that. He couldn’t tell anyone. And what if she told his dad?
When everything had been put away and all the surfaces were clean again, Barney went up two flights of stairs to the top floor. On the way, he switched off the divert that sent all incoming calls to his mobile. He wasn’t supposed to go out when his dad wasn’t home.
On the second floor of their house were Barney’s bedroom, bathroom and his den. On one wall of his den was a giant poster of the solar system, on the other a large artist’s impression of a black hole. He wasn’t particularly interested in astronomy, the two posters had just been the biggest he could find on Amazon. He pulled out the eight map pins that held them to the wall and rolled them up. Underneath were his investigations. The first was about the boys who’d been killed. Their photographs, taken from news sites, ran along the top. Beneath them, he’d fastened a map of the river with tiny coloured stickers marking the spots where the bodies had been found. Barney didn’t think there was much chance of his dad finding his investigations, he hardly ever came into his den, but he had a plan just in case. He would say they were for a school project about the work of the Metropolitan Police.
He ran his finger along the course of the river, starting way downstream in Deptford where the first body had been found. The killer was working his way up-river, getting closer. Barney’s finger hovered near Tower Bridge.
On the wall opposite was another large map, this time of all the London boroughs. Right now, he was doing Haringey. The envelopes he’d posted earlier each contained a classified ad to go into the Haringey Independent and the Haringey Advertiser. BARNEY RUBBLEMISSING YOU.WOULD LOVE TO CATCH UP SOME TIME.DIES A LITTLE EVERY DAY WITHOUT YOU,