THE CREED

Detective Jason Smith book 30

BY STEWART GILES

Copyright © 2024 Stewart Giles

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“I welcome you all.”
It was difficult to gauge the woman’s mood today. Neither her expression nor her tone of voice gave the dozen men and women gathered in the stuffy room any clue about her state of mind. Her brown eyes were almost black, and they were the eyes of a shark – dead eyes. There was virtually nothing in them to hint at how she was feeling. In fact, the only display of emotion her eyes expressed was mild indifference.

“You are all here for different reasons,” she said. “But every one of you has something broken inside. You are all damaged in some way. If you are willing to believe in the Creed absolutely, I will heal you. But if you aren’t ready for that kind of surrender. Well…”

Her eyes shifted to the half-naked figure in front of her. The man was on his knees as if he was begging for forgiveness. But there was no absolution for this wretched soul – the time for that had long passed. It was only the woman holding him by his hair that was preventing him from falling forwards. His heart had beat its last beat hours ago.

The woman with the shark eyes nodded in his direction and the disciple holding him up understood what she wanted. She let go of the dead man’s hair and took hold of one of his hands. The pincers made short work of the index finger. There was no blood – the woman who had performed the surgery hadn’t expected there to be. She held her prize in the air. The digit was bone-white, with black hairs sprouting below the knuckle.

Another nod from the dead-eyed woman and the finger was stuffed as far as possible into the dead man’s mouth. He would be disposed of later.

“You will all have your peace.”
Shark-eye’s voice was lighter now.

“But much is expected of you in order to achieve that peace. You will listen to my voice, and only my voice. What I tell you is absolute, and my word is beyond contestation. There will be no time for questions, because I will decide when you will receive the answers you seek. Is that clear?”
Nobody spoke – that was a given, but the collective nods of those gathered told her that it was understood.

“Silence will be your armour until I say otherwise.”
Her newest acolytes were hers now. Of that there was little doubt.

“There will be time enough for your voices to be heard, but that time is not now. Silence will be your shield and your salvation.”

She walked towards them and placed a hand on the shoulder of one of the people closest to her.

“Get rid of that mess,” she said and pointed to the dead man on the ground.

“Help her,” she ordered another man.

“We have a lot of work to do, but if you do what I say, you will be rewarded.”
She watched as the two disciples took hold of the dead man’s feet and dragged him from the room. The finger lodged in his throat didn’t budge.

“Silence will help you escape from your living hell. I will assist you, but you must have faith in that silence.”

CHAPTER TWO

“This vow of silence she seems to have taken isn’t helping anyone.”
The man’s name was Walter Plover and Detective Sergeant Jason Smith had taken an instant dislike to him as soon as he’d seen him on the doorstep.

Walter was employed by the adoption agency Smith and his wife Detective Sergeant Erica Whitton had contacted when they decided to adopt eight-year-old Fran Rogers. Fran’s mother was dead – her father had no interest in taking care of her, and she had no relatives or friends willing to step in. So far, the process had been relatively painless. The mandatory checks had been successful, and Smith and Whitton already had one adopted daughter, so they expected it to go smoothly.

But then Walter Plover had shown up with a much quieter woman and a spanner had been thrown in the works.

“She finds it difficult to communicate with adults she doesn’t know,” Whitton explained.

“It’s understandable that she has trust issues,” Smith added. “Considering what she’s gone through, and that’s why she needs to be looked after by someone she can rely on.”
“And you think that’s you?” Walker said with a hint of mockery in his tone.

Smith didn’t rise to it. “I know for a fact that we can take care of Fran better than some stranger she’s never met before.”
“I believe that is the very definition of a stranger,” Walter pointed out.
Smith didn’t let this rattle him either.

“This is the best environment for her,” he said instead. “She has people she can count on. She has us and she and Laura are very close.”
“Laura is your younger daughter?” the woman spoke for the first time.

She’d introduced herself as Bianca. She didn’t offer a surname.

“That’s right,” Whitton said. “Laura and Fran have been best friends for ages.”
“And Fran does talk to her,” Smith said. “Lucy too.”
“That’s your adopted daughter,” Walker said even though he knew very well that it was.

“Lucy has been through something very similar to Fran,” Smith told him. “She’s been great through all of this.”
“About that,” Walter said. “I believe Lucy gave birth to a baby last year.”

“You know she did,” Smith said. “It’s all in the file.”
“And she was still at school at the time?”

“It was a strange year,” Smith said.

“Hmm,” Walter said. “I suppose it was.”

“What is it you want from us?” Whitton asked. “We’ve filled out all the forms – the necessary checks have been carried out, so I don’t know what the problem is.”
“The problem is this,” Walter said. “It is the responsibility of the adoption agency to ensure that the applicant adopter is absolutely the best fit for the child.”
“Best fit?” Smith repeated.
He could feel his face heating up, and he had a sudden craving for a cigarette. Whitton’s hand on his shoulder didn’t do what it was supposed to do. Smith was getting angry.

“Best fit?” he said once more. “What the hell does that even mean? Fran is an eight-year-old child, and there is nobody who will be able to offer her a safer home environment than us. What makes you the authority on what’s best for a little girl? Do you even have children of your own?”
“That is irrelevant,” Walter said. “And I’ll ask you to calm down. I’m simply doing my job, and I would be derelict in my duties if I didn’t take everything into consideration.”

“Is there something you aren’t telling us?” Whitton asked. “Is there someone else interested in adopting Fran?”
“Not as far as I’m aware,” Walter said. “But that may change. You have a rather unusual living situation here.”
“What’s unusual about it?” Smith said. “Laura has her own room, as does Fran. I can see nothing unusual about it.”
“And the teenage mother lives next door. With the teenage father of the child.”
“We bought the house recently,” Smith said. “They’re doing fine. Both of them will be returning to college next week, and Andrew is thriving.”
“Andrew is the baby?”
“Why do you keep asking questions you already know the answers to? It’s starting to get a bit exhausting.”

“Bottom line is this,” Walter said. “I’m not in the habit of making a recommendation until I’m satisfied that everything has been taken into consideration.”

Smith was boiling up now. He wanted nothing more than to reach over, grab hold of Walter Plover’s head and smash it into the table.

He didn’t.

“We didn’t have to put up with this bullshit with Lucy,” he said instead.

He didn’t need to look at Whitton to know that her eyes were burning holes in him.

“Lucy’s case was entirely different,” Walter said. “When you adopted her, your family situation wasn’t so…”
He paused there.

“Unorthodox,” he added after a few seconds.

“Fran has nowhere else to go,” Whitton said. “She’s happy here.”
“It is imperative that we get some confirmation of that from the child herself,” Walter said. “And that involves talking to her. As I said, her vow of silence isn’t helping anyone. We haven’t been able to get her side of the story, and that will not do.”
“There is only one side of the story,” Smith said. “Fran needs a caring home environment, and we can provide that for her. I think we should speak to someone else at the adoption agency about this.”
“Are you threatening me?”

“I don’t do threats,” Smith said.

The sound of his phone could be heard from the kitchen. It was the ringtone that told him something had happened, and for once he was glad. He didn’t think he could bear to be in the same room as Walter Plover for another second.

“Excuse me,” he managed. “I have to take this – it’s work, and it could be important.”
He stood up and left the room. He caught a few of Walter’s words as he went.

“About that”, he said to Whitton. “We would also like to discuss the work you and your husband do.”

The ringtone stopped and started again. Smith picked up the phone and his cigarettes and went outside to the back garden. The ringtone was Oliver’s Army by Elvis Costello, and it told him it was DI Smyth.

“Boss,” Smith answered it. “Am I glad you called.”
“You won’t be when I tell you the reason for it,” DI Smyth said. “We’ve got a body. A man was found on a stretch of waste ground just outside the city. He’s been stabbed multiple times and it looks like one of his index fingers has been removed and shoved into his throat.”

CHAPTER THREE

Smith drove east. He was alone in the car – he’d explained the situation with the adoption agency to DI Smyth and the DI had agreed that it was better for Whitton to stay at home with the girls. Smith was still fuming, and he decided to break one of the rules he’d made – smoking inside the car. He realised it was probably not wise to light up. If Walter Plover caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in a vehicle sometimes used to transport children it would be game over, but Smith couldn’t care less. He wound down the window and lit the cigarette.

The body had been found by a man out for a run on a piece of open ground just north of Murton. It was a ten-minute drive, but Smith wasn’t in any hurry to get there. He was forced to stop at a red light on Hull Road just before the Grimston Bar interchange. He stuck the hand holding the cigarette outside so the smoke didn’t build up inside the car. It was early afternoon, and the roads were quiet. The new school term was about to start and parents were probably rushing around at home, making sure their offspring were ready for the Autumn term.

The lights turned to green, and Smith engaged first gear and eased his foot off the clutch. The car felt good. The old red Ford Sierra had almost ended up on the scrap heap but Smith had been reluctant to say goodbye just yet. He’d paid more than the car was worth to have her returned to her former glory and he couldn’t be happier with the work that had been done. There was still life in the old girl yet.

He knew where he was heading before he even got there. The flashing lights in the distance told him he had almost reached his destination. When he got closer, he saw the familiar sights that told him a serious crime had been committed. The car belonging to the Head of Forensics was always a dead giveaway. Grant Webber prided himself on always being the first to arrive at a crime scene and Smith saw that he hadn’t disappointed today. The ambulance was parked just up the lane from Webber’s car. Protocol dictated it, but Smith knew that more often than not the ambulance was surplus to requirements.

He parked behind DS Bridge’s Toyota and got out of the car. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stood on it. His phone beeped to tell him he’d received a message. He opened it and smiled. Whitton was telling him that Walter Plover had just left, and she had a sudden urge to punch a wall. Smith knew she wouldn’t do that.

DI Smyth was talking to a man in a tracksuit, and he assumed it was the man who’d found the body. He made his way over to them.

“Boss,” he said.

“Smith,” DI Smyth said. “Walk with me.”
He headed in the direction of the A64. Smith followed him.

“What do we know?”
“Next to nothing,” DI Smyth said. “Webber and Billie are going through the motions now. We’ve got a dead male – looks to be in his mid-thirties. He has multiple stab wounds, and his right index finger has been removed. Clinically – probably with pincers or an extremely sharp knife. The digit has been shoved down his throat.”
“Interesting,” Smith said.

“I’m glad you think so.”
“I’m just thinking out loud,” Smith said. “Do we know who he is?”
DI Smyth shook his head. “Nothing to ID him on his person.”
“What about time of death?”
“It looks to be recent. We’ll know more when Dr Bean has taken a look, but I’d say no more than twenty-four-hours.”

Smith took a good look around him. The hum of the cars on the A64 could be heard a few hundred metres away. Apart from the gravel lane leading off the main road there was nothing here but fields.

“What are you thinking?” DI Smyth said.

“He wasn’t killed here,” Smith decided.

“I don’t think so either,” DI Smyth agreed. “I think he was dumped here afterwards. Probably last night. There are no buildings for miles. This is an ideal dumping ground for a body.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”

“He was meant to be found,” Smith said.

“Go on.”
“There might be nothing here but fields,” Smith said. “But the terrain is pretty level. You can see for miles. And you don’t cut off someone’s finger and shove it in his mouth for no reason. The fact that the killer did that has to mean something, and I reckon he’ll want his handiwork noticed.”
“And you can deduce all that without even taking a look at the body?”
“I’m just going through the motions, boss,” Smith said. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Regarding the man who found the body,” DI Smyth said. “It’s a case of same old, same old. Jogger or dogwalker stumbles across a corpse – end of story. We’ll get a statement from him, for what it’s worth, but our main priority right now is the poor bastard’s ID. Who was he and why did someone want him dead?”
“And why chop off his finger and insert it inside his mouth?” Smith added. “That part is important.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m going to take a look,” Smith said.

“You know the drill.”
     Smith could detect a foul stench in the air. He spotted the source of the stink close to where the body had been found. A makeshift rubbish dump had been created and piles of black refuse bags were surrounded by a three-foot wooden fence. As he got closer, he could see the forensics technicians at work. They were a well-oiled piece of machinery and Smith never tired of watching them doing what they did best. Billie Jones was taking photograph after photograph of the scene and the surrounding area and Smith knew she wouldn’t leave anything out. Everything she caught on camera would later be analysed and documented. Pete Richards was on all fours taking a close look at something on the ground. Grant Webber wasn’t doing much at all. The Head of Forensics looked like he was lost in thought a few metres away from Billie. He was standing stock still and his eyes were fixed on something in the distance.

Smith walked over to him.

“Is everything OK?”

Webber nodded and kept his eyes firmly fixed on whatever it was he was looking at.

“Have you seen something?”

“He was brought here by car,” Webber said. “From that direction.”
He pointed to the A64.

“Anybody who reads third-rate cosy mysteries could figure that out,” Smith said. “The gravel track is the only way in and out of here.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Webber looked at him now. There was an expression in his eyes that Smith found uncomfortable to look at. His gaze was fierce.

“Go on,” Smith urged.

“He was transported here and left on display,” Webber continued. “It was very carefully done, without any hint of haste.”

“They took their time?” Smith said.

“This wasn’t a case of a car racing up, throwing out a body and getting the hell away from here,” Webber said. “From the tyre tracks in the gravel it seems they parked the car, did what they had to do and left. Whoever did this wasn’t in any hurry.”
“They wanted to make sure the body was displayed properly,” Smith said.

“That’s not my department,” Webber said. “But I think you’re right. I assume you want to take a look.”
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“I think you’ve got that a bit mixed up,” Webber said. “Come on then. That SOC suit seems to fit you a bit better than it used to. Have you lost a bit of weight?”

“It’s been a stressful few weeks,” Smith said and left it at that.

CHAPTER FOUR

Smith followed Webber. The Head of Forensics walked in the dirt next to the gravel track and Smith made sure to do the same. They stopped next to the inner cordon and Webber held up the police tape for Smith to duck underneath.

The dead man had been positioned so that he was on his back with his unblinking eyes facing skyward. The alien object inside his mouth was hard to miss even though the finger had been forced quite deep inside his mouth. Smith wondered why Webber had left it in there. He decided that he must have had his reasons. The digit had been inserted, fingernail first and the effect of the stump protruding from the lips was rather disturbing. Smith forced himself to take a closer look and he saw that the cut was indeed a clean one. Whatever had been used to sever the finger had cut through the bone, cartilage and flesh with relative ease. There was no blood on the stump or around the mouth. Smith deduced that the finger had been severed after death had occurred, and the thought was somewhat comforting.

“Well?” Webber asked when Smith had seen enough.

Smith sniffed the air.

“What’s with the bin bags?” he asked.

“I believe it’s a new initiative by the council,” Webber said.

“Dumping garbage in the middle of the countryside? What the hell is the idea behind that?”

“Compost,” Webber said. “All the refuse in the bin bags is biodegradable. It’ll be left inside the refuse bags until the decomposition process begins and then it’ll be crushed and turned into compost. Recycling is big business.”

“Why have you left the finger where it is?” Smith asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious.”
“I must be losing my touch,” Smith said. “Enlighten me.”
Webber’s expression softened. “I’m messing with you – we just haven’t got round to removing it. Billie got his prints, so hopefully they’re on the database somewhere. I assume you’re desperate to know who he is.”
“You assume correctly and I’m not in the mood to wait to see if someone comes in to report him missing. Is there anything else you can tell me about him at this moment?”
“You know the score,” Webber said. “Right now, what you see is what we know. How are things with the little girl?”
“Not great,” Smith said. “Fran is doing fine – she’s still not speaking to us much, but we had a visit from an idiot from the adoption agency earlier and I was this close to knocking his lights out.”
“I don’t think that will do you any favours.”
“I get that,” Smith said. “But that little girl needs us and there’s a chance she’ll be shipped off to some house of strangers because this dickhead thinks he wields all the power.”
“One of those, is he?”
“Worse,” Smith said. “I’d better get out of here. No doubt the DI will want to schedule a briefing. Is everything alright with you? You seem a bit preoccupied.”
“Occupational hazard,” Webber said.

Smith didn’t press further. He’d known Grant Webber a very long time now and his occasional bouts of weirdness didn’t really surprise him anymore.

Bridge and DC Moore were walking towards him when Smith made his way back to his car. Smith took out a cigarette and lit one.

“Afternoon,” Bridge said.

“Afternoon,” Smith reciprocated. “This is an interesting one.”
“You say that about all of them,” DC Moore said.

“The finger in the mouth is intriguing,” Smith told him.

“Do you think it was intentional?”
“No, Harry,” Smith said. “It got there by accident. Of course it was intentional, you fool. Billie has taken his prints, so there’s a chance they’ll be in the database. He had no ID on him. That could be intentional too, or he might just have not been in the habit of carrying any identification.”

“What’s the plan?” Bridge said.

“The boss will no doubt want a briefing,” Smith said. “But without an ID we don’t have much to discuss. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Why do that with his finger?”
“We had a similar one a few years ago,” Bridge said.

“I remember it,” Smith said. “The finger was severed but it wasn’t left in his mouth.”
“Where did it end up?” DC Moore asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Bridge said.

“You’re kidding?”
“Unfortunately not,” Smith said. “The poor bastard had his finger cut off and rammed up his arsehole. Luckily for him he was already dead by then. I’m hungry – I’m going to grab a bite to eat. I’ll see you at the station.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with that man,” DC Moore said when Smith had gone.

“Have you only just figured that out?” Bridge said.

He spotted someone coming towards him and his eyes lit up.

“Get a statement from the bloke who found the body,” he told DC Moore.

“Can’t one of the uniforms do that?” the man from London said.

“The only one left at the scene is PC Griffin,” Bridge said. “He’ll probably want to know the jogger’s favourite film. He tends to go into a bit too much detail when he takes a statement.”
DC Moore walked away, shaking his head.

Billie Jones got closer, and Bridge gave his armpits a subtle sniff. They would have to do.

“Can I have a word?” she said.

“You can have as many as you like,” Bridge said. “I could listen to you talk all day.”
“Not here,” Billie said.

She walked past him, and he had no option but to follow her.

They stopped by Bridge’s car.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked her.

“I know this isn’t really the time or the place,” she said. “But I saw you standing there and something told me I needed to do this now. One of those now or never moments.”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“I don’t think you are. This isn’t working.”
“What isn’t working?” Bridge said.

“Us.”
“I thought it was.”
“I thought so too,” Billie said. “But now I’m not so sure. I like you – I really like you, but I’m not ready for this right now. I’m sorry.”
“Is this where you tell me we can still be friends?” Bridge said. “Or are you going to tell me that it’s not me, it’s you?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” Bridge said. “How the fuck else do you want me to be?”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Bridge said. “Will there be anything else?”
“What?” Billie said. “No, that’s all.”
“Then we’re done talking.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Rupert…”
“Don’t,” he said. “Just don’t.”
He shrugged off the hand, opened the car and got inside. Then he slammed his hands on the steering wheel so hard he was sure he’d broken something.

CHAPTER FIVE

Smith had picked up a pie from a garage on the way to the station. He’d eaten it inside his car and now the dashboard and driver’s seat was peppered with pastry crumbs. He got out of the car and brushed himself down. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. The conversation with the officious man from the adoption agency was still clear in his head and he didn’t know what to think about it. Fran had settled in well in the Smith household and there was a chance that she would be taken away from it. Smith was determined not to let that happen.

He finished the cigarette and went inside the station. PC Baldwin was speaking to a woman by the front desk. Smith nodded a greeting and headed up to the canteen. The pastry on the pie had been dry and his mouth was telling him it needed some coffee in it.

The only other person in the canteen was DC King. Smith selected a strong coffee from the machine and joined her at her table.

“Sarge,” she said.

“Kerry.”
“I heard about the dead man over in Murton.”
“It’s a strange one,” Smith said. “He was left on display with a severed finger stuffed into his mouth.”

“What do you think it represents?” DC King said.

“The jury is still out on that. Until we have an ID for the poor bastard, there’s no point in speculating. It has to be important though. He was placed carefully where he was found and that means somebody wanted to send out some kind of message.”

“Where is everybody else?” DC King said.

Smith took a sip of his coffee. “Bridge and Harry are still at the scene. Whitton won’t be joining us today. We had a nasty surprise from the adoption agency, and we thought it would be better if she stayed at home with Fran.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not right now,” Smith said. “The boss will be scheduling a briefing, but I want to know who the dead man is before we talk about what happened to him.”

Right on cue, his phone started to ring and the opening bars of Thomas Dolby’s You blinded me with science could be heard.

“It’s Webber,” Smith said, and answered the call.

“We’ve got an ID for you.” The Head of Forensics got straight to the point.

“That was quick,” Smith said.

“George Leith,” Webber said. “Billie sent the prints she took straight to the team back at the New Forensics Building, and we got a hit. He’s on the database.”
“He has a record?”

“I’ve emailed the details to you,” Webber said. “But I know how often you check your mail, so I’ll give you a run down now. George Leith was not a very pleasant man when he was still breathing. He was arrested no fewer than six times for assault and he recently did a two-year stretch for GBH. He was particularly fond of using his fists on women.”
“It sounds like he’s better off dead,” Smith said.

“Be that as it may,” Webber said. “Someone ended his life and the last time I checked, even scumbags are entitled to justice in this great country.”
“Thanks, Webber,” Smith said.

He filled DC King in.

“Looks like we’ve got a possible motive,” he added.

“He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” DC King said.

“Nasty enough for someone to want to kill him?” Smith wondered.

DC Moore came into the canteen. He made a beeline straight for the coffee machine, tapped a few buttons and waited for the coffee he’d selected.

“Where’s Bridge?” Smith asked.

“Sulking,” DC Moore said.

He joined them at their table.

“What’s he got the hump about now?” Smith said.

“God knows. He didn’t say a word on the drive here. He can be a real misery guts when he wants to. I believe we’ve got an ID for the dead man.”
“News travels fast,” Smith said.

“I bumped into the DI on my way up here. Briefing in fifteen minutes.”

Smith finished his coffee and stood up.

“I’m going out for a quick smoke then.”
     He found Bridge outside next to his car. He was tapping away on the screen of his mobile phone. Smith lit a cigarette and walked over to him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Women,” Bridge said. “Bloody women.”
“I won’t ask.”
“Billie has broken up with me,” Bridge told him anyway. “Can you believe it?”
Smith didn’t think it was a good idea to comment on this.

“Can you believe it?” Bridge said once more. “She gave me the good news at a bloody crime scene. She said it wasn’t working, and now she’s sending me texts to ask if we can talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Smith said.

“Me too. I really thought she was the one.”
“Did she give you a reason?” Smith dared to ask.

“She said she wasn’t ready for a relationship right now. It’s a piss-poor reason. I’ll never understand women, and I think I might have broken something on my steering wheel. The Toyota felt weird on the way back here.”

“We’ve got an ID for the body,” Smith changed the subject. “The boss wants a briefing in ten minutes.”
Bridge wasn’t listening. “Things were going great. Or at least I thought they were. Do you think she’s found someone else?”
“No,” Smith said without thinking. “Billie isn’t like that. If she’d hooked up with another bloke she’d tell you. You need to keep your mind on the investigation.”
Bridge’s phone beeped. He glanced at the screen and groaned.

“She’s bloody relentless. What more is there to talk about?”
“Bridge,” Smith said, much louder than he intended. “Put it out of your mind. Your head needs to be focused on the case. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a nasty one.”

CHAPTER SIX

“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there.”

There was a glint in the eyes of the shark-eyed woman now.

“You should probably get that looked at.”

She was enjoying this.

The man she was talking to was unable to respond. A thick rag had been stuffed inside his mouth. He’d been stabbed three times – in the shoulder, stomach and lower back. None of the wounds would be immediately fatal, but that was intentional.

“Get him to his feet.”
Two of the silent minions did as they were asked. Another came towards him with the knife. All three looked at the woman with the dead eyes, waiting for further instructions.

She tilted her head as though she was observing an unusual piece of art. With her finger she traced a line from his throat downwards until she reached the spot where his heart was beating dangerously quickly under his shirt.

“Right there,” she said. “You need to stab hard.”

The man struggled, and two more of the mute disciples stepped forward. The blood from the wound to his shoulder had dried black. The gash in his stomach was still bleeding badly and he was extremely weak. He’d lost a lot of blood, and he was no match for the four pairs of hands holding him still.

There was barely a reaction when the knife hit home. As the blade met the ribcage the tip broke off when it connected with bone. Still it carried on, and the expression in the man’s eyes told them it had made contact with the pulpy mass of his heart. The knife was yanked free, and a thick spurt of blood followed it. There was a rush of warm air as the doomed man let out his final breath and the shark-eyed woman watched as the life drained from his eyes.

“Finger.”
The amputation was quick. The rag was removed from the dead man’s mouth and replaced with a thick, hairy index finger.

“You’ve done well. You’ve proven your loyalty to the Creed, and soon you will all begin your journey towards the light.”

* * *

“George Leith,” DI Smyth said.

He wrote the name on the whiteboard in the small conference room.

“His record paints a rather ugly picture of the man. In 2016, he assaulted a friend outside a nightclub. The altercation started after an argument over whose turn it was to get a round in. The friend suffered numerous injuries to his face and neck, but he refused to press charges.”
“With friends like that, who needs enemies?” DC Moore said.

“Six months after that,” DI Smyth said. “Mr Leith was arrested when uniforms were called out to a property he shared with his girlfriend at the time. The woman had bruising to her cheek and her lip was swollen. She too changed her mind about taking it further. But she lived to regret it. Less than a month after the initial assault the neighbours phoned the police because they’d heard screams coming from next door. The officers first to arrive found Mr Leith fleeing the scene. His girlfriend was bleeding from a wound to her head and one of her eyes was swollen shut. Mr Leith was apprehended and arrested. He received a six-month sentence for his efforts, and he was released three months into it for good behaviour.”

“You’re kidding?” DC King said.

“The system is flawed, Kerry,” DI Smyth said. “It is what it is.”

“Mr Leith’s most serious assault came in 2018. The victim in this instance was a man, and he was hospitalized with a broken nose, three broken ribs and a fractured wrist. George was charged with GBH, sentenced to two years and he served the full term at Full Sutton. He was released early last year, and it appears he’s kept his nose clean since he got out of prison.”

“Last year was a strange year,” DC Moore said. “The lockdown restrictions kept crime down to next to nothing.”

“Can we keep the comments relevant to the investigation?” Smith said.

DC Moore held up his hands in apology.

“I think we can all agree that there is probably a long list of people who might have wanted George Leith dead?” DI Smyth put forward.

The silence inside the room told him that nobody disagreed with him.

“Do we have a name for the ex-girlfriend?” Smith said. “I assume she is an ex-girlfriend now.”
“She is,” DI Smyth confirmed. “Jemma Watkins. She still lives in the city.”
“We need to look at her family and friends,” Smith said. “This could be a simple case of revenge. It’s possible someone close to Jemma wasn’t happy with Leith getting off lightly for beating her up and decided to take the law into their own hands.”
“It’s possible,” DI Smyth agreed.

“But what’s the story with the finger in the mouth?” DC King said. “That part doesn’t fit. What else do we know about the man?”
“As of now,” DI Smyth said. “Very little.”

“He could have upset someone in prison,” DC Moore suggested.

“It’s not unheard of,” DI Smyth said.

“What about his last victim?” DC King said. “Mr Leith assaulted him pretty badly. It warranted a GBH charge, so maybe he wanted to get even.”

“It’s early days,” DI Smyth said. “And you all know what that means. We’ll go down the usual routes, and then we’ll consider some more unlikely theories.”

“The finger is important,” Smith said.

“Here we go.” It was Bridge.

“It didn’t get there by accident,” Smith said. “This wasn’t a case of a finger becoming dislodged and miraculously landing in the guy’s mouth. It was put there for a reason.”
“And we will be exploring possible reasons for that when we have more information about the man,” DI Smyth promised. “Right now, we do this the way we always do in the initial stages of an investigation.”

“Grunt work,” Bridge scoffed.

“Is there something you’d care to share with the rest of the team?” DI Smyth said.

Bridge shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not going to bust my balls to find out who killed a man who deserved everything he got. Good riddance to the bastard.”

“Regardless of what kind of a man George Leith was,” DI Smyth said. “You will treat this as an unlawful killing, and as such you will do what you’re paid to do. If you have a problem with that, you know where the door is.”

Smith suspected what was going to happen next, and he wasn’t mistaken. Bridge got to his feet so violently the chair he’d been sitting on was flung backwards. He picked up his phone and headed for the door. Nobody tried to stop him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jemma Watkins lived in a terraced house in Bootham. The property was a stone’s throw from the site of the old football ground. Smith rang the bell and the door was opened shortly afterwards by a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in a green tracksuit, and he looked like he’d only just got out of bed. His hair was in need of a brush, and he had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin.

“What?”

Smith got the impression he wasn’t keen on strangers turning up on his doorstep.

He took out his ID. “DS Smith, and this is DC King. We’re looking for Jemma Watkins.”
“What for?”

“Do you have a name?” Smith asked.

“Kevin,” he said. “Most of my friends call me Kev, but you can call me Kevin.”
He started to laugh at his own joke.

“Can we come inside?” DC King said.

Kevin opened the door wider. “I suppose so. Jemma is just putting Kevin Junior down. I’ll go and get her. You can wait in there.”
He nodded to a door to the left of the hallway and made his way upstairs.

“Funny guy,” DC King said in the living room.

Smith shifted a pile of newspapers off the three-seater sofa and he and DC King sat down.

“He should try stand-up comedy,” he said. “Nice place they have here.”

The living room was a mess. The coffee table was littered with takeaway cartons and empty beer cans. An overflowing ashtray was in danger of falling off the edge of the table. Smith leaned over and moved it into the middle. There was a stale smell inside the room and Smith was tempted to open a window.

He didn’t get the chance. The door opened and a blond woman came in and sat down on the single armchair.

“I’m Jemma. Sorry about the mess.”
“It’s fine,” DC King said.

“Our Kev had a few mates round last night,” Jemma explained. “It doesn’t normally look like this in here. I can tidy up a bit if you like.”
“That’s OK,” Smith said. “We’re here to talk to you about George Leith.”
“Kev said you are detectives.”

She looked him in the eye and Smith noticed that her dark eyes were devoid of life. They really were expressionless, and he wondered if George Leith had something to do with it. Did the abuse he inflicted cause the life to drain from Jemma’s eyes?
“That’s right,” Smith said. “I’m DS Smith and this is DC King. When was the last time you saw Mr Leith?”

“I haven’t seen that bastard for four years. Not since the trial. What’s he done, beat up another poor woman?”

Smith didn’t reply to her question.

“You were in a relationship with Mr Leith for a while,” he said instead. “Is that right?”
“Biggest mistake of my life,” Jemma said.

“He was sentenced to six months for assaulting you,” DC King said. “Is that also correct?”
“I just told you,” Jemma said. “That was the last time I saw him. I wanted to watch him get sent down, but he was out soon enough, wasn’t he? Three months – that’s all he got for what he did to me.”
“And you haven’t seen him since then?” Smith said.

“No. He wasn’t allowed to come anywhere near me. I was told that was part of the terms of his license.”

“Does your boyfriend know what Mr Leith did to you?” Smith asked.

“Kev’s my fiancé,” Jemma corrected. “We’ll be getting married next year.”

“I apologise,” Smith said. “Does he know what happened?”

“Of course. We tell each other everything.”
“How did he react when he found out that Mr Leith assaulted you?”
“He wanted to kill him,” Jemma said and laughed. “Kev’s very protective of me. What’s this all about?”
“What did your family think about the assault?” Smith said.

“What do you mean?”
“Were they angry?” DC King said. “He was sent to prison for only three months. That must have stung a bit.”
“It was a long time ago,” Jemma said. “Are you going to tell me why you’re asking me about George? I haven’t seen him for four years, and if he did show his face around here, he’d be sent straight back to prison. You must know that too.”

“Mr Leith is dead, Jemma,” Smith told her. “He was discovered this morning on a stretch of ground near Murton.”
“Are you saying he was murdered?”
“I am.”
“Good riddance to him,” Jemma said. “It was bound to happen one day.”
“What makes you say that?” DC King said.

“His type have a short shelf life, don’t they? The life expectancy of people like George isn’t very long. Good riddance. How was he killed?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Smith said. “You told us that your fiancé had a few friends round last night.”
“A few of his football mates,” Jemma said. “The new season has just started and the Minstermen actually won a game for once. Are you into football?”
“No,” Smith said. “I’ve never seen the point of it.”
“Don’t let our Kev hear you say that.”
“What time did his friends come round?” Smith said.

“About eight.”
“And what time did they leave?”
“John and Gary left around midnight,” Jemma said. “But Ozzy and Paul kipped on the floor in here. I only got rid of them just before you knocked on the door – that’s why the room looks like it does.”
“Did your fiancé go out at all last night?” DC King said.

“I don’t think so. I can ask him if you like.”
“That’s fine,” Smith said. “We won’t keep you much longer.”

Kevin came in with a baby in his arms. “He won’t settle.”
“Give him here,” Jemma said. “He probably didn’t get all his wind up.”
Smith watched as Kevin handed the baby to her. She stroked his hair and brought him up to her chest. She rubbed his back and shortly afterwards the little boy let rip with a resounding belch. Smith found himself smiling.

“It’s such a relief when he does that,” Jemma said. “He’ll sleep now.”

She handed him back to his dad and they left the room.
“How old is he?” Smith asked.

“Nine months.”
“He’s big for his age. My grandson is a year old and he’s smaller than your boy.”
“Grandson?”
“It’s a long story,” Smith said. “We’ll be on our way in a minute. Can you think of anybody who would want to hurt Mr Leith?”
“I can think of plenty.”
“I thought you might say that. Just one more question. One of his fingers was cut off. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Gross,” Jemma said. “Someone cut off his finger?”
“The index finger from his left hand,” Smith elaborated. “Can you think of any reason why someone would do that?”
“Of course not,” Jemma said. “That’s sick.”

Kevin came back in. “He went out like a light. What’s going on here?”
“George Leith is dead,” Jemma told him.

Kevin nodded.

“You don’t seem too surprised,” Smith said.

“That’s because I’m not,” Kevin said. “Someone should have wiped him out years ago. How was he murdered?”
“What makes you think someone murdered him?” DC King said.

“You just told me he was.”
“My colleague said he was dead,” DC King said. “He didn’t say he’d been murdered.”
“I suppose it’s the logical assumption to make.”
“Did you ever meet Mr Leith?” Smith said.

“No,” Kevin said. “Probably for the best. After what he did to my Jemma, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop myself from knocking his lights out. Looks like someone saved me the bother. Why are you wasting time on a piece of scum like him?”
“We’re just doing our job,” DC King said.

“I wouldn’t bother. Nobody is going to miss him.”
     Smith got to his feet to indicate that the chat was over.
“Thank you for speaking to us. If you think of anything else, give me a call any time. Especially if something occurs to you about the finger.”
He took out one of his cards and left it on the coffee table.

“Finger?” Kevin said.

“I’ll tell you later,” Jemma said.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Smith said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Did you see her eyes?” DC King said.

She and Smith were on their way to Holgate. Smith wanted to speak to George Leith’s last victim.

“Lifeless,” Smith said. “It’s the only way to describe them. I’ve seen eyes like that before.”
“Where was this?”
“In the face of a serial killer,” Smith said. “A particularly nasty one.”
“Aren’t they all nasty?”
“Some are worse than others. What’s the address again?”
“Murray Street,” DC King said. “Number 8.”

Smith turned right onto Holgate Road and reduced his speed when he saw the lights turn red up ahead.

“What’s up with DS Bridge?” DC King asked.

“Billie has broken up with him,” Smith said. “He’s taking it pretty badly.”
“Poor bloke. He really likes her, doesn’t he?”
“He’ll live,” Smith said. “I’ve lost count of how many women Bridge has thought were the one. He’ll get over it.”

“I don’t think Jemma Watkins was involved in George Leith’s murder,” DC King said.

“Me neither,” Smith said. “I think she’s put that chapter of her life behind her. She has a baby, and her fiancé seems a decent enough guy.”
“He clearly doesn’t mind helping out with the baby. He must be one of the new breed of Yorkshiremen. My dad wouldn’t have dreamed of changing a nappy or sterilizing a bottle.”
“Twenty-first century man,” Smith said.

“Something like that. The light’s green, Sarge.”
“What?”

“Green light.”
A honk of a horn behind them joined in. Smith pulled away from the traffic lights and took the next left.

* * *

Neil Flint was a tall man with short black hair. The lenses on the glasses he was wearing made his eyes look much bigger than they were. Smith explained the nature of their visit and Neil invited them in. He headed straight for the living room and quickly closed the laptop on the table.

“I was just updating my CV,” he said. “Take a seat.”
Smith and DC King sat opposite him on an expensive-looking leather sofa.

“I’m in between jobs right now,” Neil said.

“What do you do?” DC King asked.

“This and that. My last position was warehouse manager, but those kinds of jobs are hard to find these days. I’ve been doing an online bookkeeping course. People are always going to need bookkeepers, aren’t they?”

Smith wasn’t interested in that.

“We’d like to talk to you about George Leith,” he said.

Neil removed his glasses, scratched his nose and put the glasses back on.

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”
“Mr Leith assaulted you in 2018, didn’t he?”
“He attacked me for no reason,” Neil said.

“What happened?” DC King said.

“It was Friday night, and I was out with a few mates at a pub in the city centre. I didn’t know George from Adam, but one of the blokes I was with took umbrage to the way he was treating the woman he was with.”

“What was he doing?” Smith said.

“He was being a bit rough with her,” Neil said. “It was obvious she wasn’t happy being with him but when she tried to walk off, he grabbed hold of her. Vince, that’s my mate stepped in. Told him he was out of order. The woman looked terrified, but she managed to get away from him. I thought that would be the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t?” DC King said.

“That was only the start.”
A phone started to ring somewhere close by.

Neil stood up. “Sorry, but I need to take that – it might be a job offer.”
He left the room and returned shortly afterwards.

“False alarm. It was someone trying to sell me insurance. They’re a real nuisance these days.”
“What happened after the woman left the pub?” Smith said.

“I was knackered,” Neil said. “I’d just come off a week of nights, and I really needed some sleep. My mates wanted to go on to a club, but I’d had enough so I headed for the taxi rank. I was halfway there when George Leith appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t say a word, he just started punching me. I’m not much of a fighter and it was clear that he was. I ended up with a broken nose, a few cracked ribs and a sprained wrist. It was lucky there were a few people around to stop it, or it could have been worse. Your lot were there in minutes, and he was taken away in a police car. He was lucky – I was taken away in an ambulance.”

“He was sentenced to two years,” Smith said. “Do you think that was long enough?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Neil said. “It got him off the streets for a while.”

“How did you feel after the attack?”
“I was out of action for a while. I was awarded compensation, for what it was worth. Five quid a week for two hundred weeks – that’s what he was ordered to pay me. Can you believe it?”
Smith did some quick mental arithmetic and figured out that George Leith still hadn’t paid his debt to Neil Flint, and now he never would.

“Why are you asking me about George Leith after all this time?” Neil said.

“We’re just conducting some routine enquiries,” Smith said. “Mr Leith’s body was discovered this morning, and we’re speaking to everyone with a connection to the man.”
“Are you saying that he’s dead?”

“He is,” Smith confirmed. “He was murdered. Can you tell us where you were last night?”
“You can’t think I killed him?”
“Like I said,” Smith said. “This is just routine.”
“Where was I last night?” Neil asked himself. “I was out with a few friends.”
“Where did you go?” DC King said.

“The Minstermen thrashed Bromley, and we went out to celebrate. It was a big win for us. We hit a couple of pubs and went on to a club.”
“What time did you get back home?” Smith said.

“About two.”
“And you didn’t go out again?”
“I went straight to bed,” Neil said. “I can give you the details of my friends, as well as the taxi company I used. I also have a CCTV camera over my front door that will show me getting home.”
Smith didn’t doubt it.

“If you could just give us the names of the people you were out with,” he said anyway. “That would be great.”
Neil Flint’s alibi had to be checked out even though Smith knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t a killer.

CHAPTER NINE

“What the hell was that little outburst all about?”
DI Smyth was sitting opposite Bridge inside his office. He’d requested Bridge’s presence as soon as the briefing was over.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Bridge said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. Is there something I need to be aware of?”

“It’s personal.”
“Then I would appreciate if you kept that kind of behaviour away from the workplace. Is everything alright at home? Do you need some time off?”
“No, sir.”
“Good,” DI Smyth said. “Because we need all hands on deck right now. Get out of here.”
Bridge stood up and headed for the door.

“If there’s something on your mind,” DI Smyth said. “You know you can talk to me. I’m not an ogre.”
Bridge turned around. “I know that sir.”

He left the office and headed for the exit. DC Moore was waiting for him outside.

“Did you get a bollocking?” the man from London asked.

“A friendly warning,” Bridge said.

“I’m sorry about you and Billie.”
“Don’t be,” Bridge said. “I’m not. It’s her loss. Rupert Bridge will be back on the dating horse in no time at all.”
“It’s quite concerning when you refer to yourself in the third person, Sarge.”
“Shut up. Let’s get going.”

They’d planned to go and see Jemma Watkins’ sister but when DI Smyth burst through the doors of the station and raced towards them, both detectives knew there had been a change of plan.

“The body of a man has been found in Heslington,” DI Smyth told them. “One of his index fingers has been severed and shoved inside his mouth.”

* * *

Smith got there first. He and DC King were only five minutes away when the call came through. When he found out about the severed finger, something had stirred inside him. It was a familiar sensation, and it was one that told him that something nasty had been set in motion. He’d suspected that the man found in Murton wasn’t a one-off and his gut had been proven right once more. The flutter in his stomach excited him and he realised it probably wasn’t a healthy reaction to have. Smith didn’t care – the chase was on, and he was ready for it.

The man had been found behind the primary school on School Lane. A woman was out for a walk when she discovered the body on the ground between two of the large rubbish bins there. She’d called the police immediately.

Smith parked his car in the car park of the school. He got out and took a good look around. The primary school building was old. Smith thought it looked more like a church than a school. The stone walls looked like they’d been well maintained over the years.

“What a pretty school,” DC King said. “I wish I’d gone to a school like this. My primary school in Bradford looked like a prison.”
“It’s lucky it wasn’t one of the kids who found the body,” Smith said. “The term isn’t due to start for another few days. Let’s go and see what we’ve got.”
     They made their way to the back of the building. The officers first on the scene had been quick to secure the area. The police tape stretched from the back of the school on both sides. The outer cordon was a large one, and Smith knew that Webber would be impressed. The Head of Forensics was on his way – for once, Smith had beaten him to a crime scene. He stopped behind the inner cordon. He could see the dead man from there. He was on his back and his eyes were facing skyward. He had been placed in exactly the same position that George Leith had.

“We’d better wait for Forensics,” Smith told DC King. “Webber won’t be happy if we go trampling around the body. Let’s go and speak to the woman who found him.”

PC Griffin was sitting next to a woman on a bench in the playground of the school. The piggy-eyed PC was making notes in a notebook and Smith thought the woman looked somewhat harassed. He walked over to them.

“I’ll take it from here,” he told PC Griffin.

“I was just getting the information while it’s still fresh in the witness’s head, Sarge.”
“I need you to make sure nobody comes any closer,” Smith said. “We’re going to have rubberneckers when the word gets out. Now, please.”

“Thank you,” the woman said.

She told Smith her name was Irene Wood. She looked to be in her sixties, and she seemed remarkably calm under the circumstances.

“I know he was just doing his job,” she said. “But he was making me feel like I’d done something wrong.”
“He’s new,” Smith said. “He’s a bit too keen sometimes. Are you OK? Do you need medical assistance?”
“I’m fine. I’ve seen worse.”

Smith didn’t comment on this.

“I’m a retired pathology assistant,” Irene explained. “I worked alongside Dr Johnson. You probably don’t remember me. I remember you though.”
“You worked with Paul?”
“He was a brilliant pathologist,” Irene said. “His mind was incredible.”
“He was a good friend of mine,” Smith said.

He hadn’t thought about Paul The Ghoul Johnson in a long time. Irene Wood hadn’t been exaggerating – his was a truly incredible, if somewhat eccentric, mind. He was killed during an investigation that almost cost Smith his life too. Smith remembered he was buried on Friday the 13th and the memory made him smile. He also recalled that the Ghoul had left him a substantial amount of money in his Will.

He returned to the present.

“Could you talk me through the events leading up to finding the body?”

“I was out for a stroll,” Irene said. “I live on Badger Hill, and I like to take a walk on a Sunday afternoon. I usually follow the same route. I go past the Heslington Church – head down here and take a breather on one of the benches looking out to the lakes by the university campus.”
“Did you see anyone around before you found the body?”
“A couple of people. The place is usually busy during term time but the new term hasn’t started yet, so it was quiet.”
“Did you touch the body at all?” Smith said.

Irene smiled a smile that told Smith he’d asked the wrong question.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to ask.”
“I know the drill,” Irene said. “Thirty years working alongside some of the best has taught me well.”

DC King approached. Smith introduced her to Irene Wood.

“The forensic team have arrived,” DC King said.

“Leave them to it,” Smith said. “They’ll probably be a while.”
“I don’t mean to interfere,” Irene said. “But one thing struck me as rather strange about the finger inside his mouth.”
DC King’s eyes grew wide.

“Irene is a retired pathology assistant,” Smith explained.

“Nothing fazes me anymore, love,” Irene said.

“What was strange about it,” Smith said. “The finger I mean?”

“The man has blond hair,” Irene said. “And I get the impression that that’s his natural hair colour. He’s also quite tanned. He looks like he’s been abroad recently. I could be wrong, but the finger in his mouth is as white as a bone and the hairs growing from it are black. I saw the stump where a finger used to be on his hand, but if I didn’t know any better, I would suspect that the finger in his mouth isn’t his.”

CHAPTER TEN

“She was right,” Smith told the rest of the team. “Irene Wood suspected that the finger in the latest victim’s mouth wasn’t his, and she was correct. A quick fingerprint analysis confirmed it. The index finger on his left hand was removed, but someone’s else’s finger was placed inside his mouth.”
“That’s disgusting,” DC Moore said.

“Which bit do you find disgusting, Harry,” Smith said. “The bit about the severed finger or the part where someone else’s digit was stuffed inside his mouth? Or perhaps the fact that he was stabbed multiple times is the disgusting bit.”
“That’s enough,” DI Smyth said. “What does this mean though? What exactly does this tell us?”
“There’s more,” Smith said. “Both the prints taken from the dead man and the one taken from the mystery digit in his mouth are on file. The dead man is Jonathan Peterson and the bloke now missing his index finger is someone called Alan Zane. And I believe this Zane character is now deceased.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” DI Smyth said. “We don’t know that he’s dead.”
“He’s dead,” Smith insisted.

“Alright,” DI Smyth said. “Before we get into a debate about whether or not Mr Zane’s heart is still beating, let’s discuss Jonathan Peterson.”
“He was a nasty piece of work, boss,” Smith said.

“Another one,” DC Moore said.

“Jonathan has a string of charges to his name, and there’s a common denominator with all of them. He liked to hurt women. He was arrested numerous times, but in all but one instance the charges against him were subsequently dropped.”
“That’s our link,” Bridge joined in.

“It’s good to have you back with us,” Smith told him. “But yes, we have a link between George Leith and Jonathan Peterson. Both of them were handy with their fists and they preferred to use them on women. And both of them got off relatively lightly when they were caught.”

“You said all but one of the charges against Mr Peterson were dropped,” DI Smyth said.

“He did eighteen months for assault,” Smith said. “The woman he attacked was his own mother.”
“He sounds lovely,” DC Moore said.

“Shut up, Harry.”
“Why do you have to treat me like shit all the time?”
“Because you ask for it,” Smith replied. “I don’t know the details, but his mother didn’t back down. She was the one responsible for his incarceration.”

“What about the Zane bloke?” Bridge said. “Why are his prints on the database?”
“His is a similar situation to Jonathan’s,” Smith said. “Quite a few arrests but no convictions. Alan Zane liked to use women as punching bags too, and he got away with it, and that’s why I know he’s no longer alive. Someone is killing men who have attacked women in the past.”
“The press is going to love this when it gets out,” DC King pointed out.

“That’s why we have to make sure it doesn’t get out, Kerry,” Smith said. “We can’t have the fourth estate painting this killer as a modern-day hero. The public will lap it up, and that’ll make things extremely difficult for us. We need to try and keep a lid on this.”
“I agree,” DI Smyth said. “Smith is right – the last thing we need is an entire city in the corner of a serial killer.”

Bridge was wide awake now. “Serial killer?”
“We only have two dead bodies,” DC Moore said.

“Three,” Smith corrected. “Alan Zane is dead.”

“Moving on.” DI Smyth had seen discussions like these last for hours. “Let’s look at what else we know.”
“Jonathan Peterson was stabbed multiple times,” Smith said. “We’ll have the official time of death sometime tomorrow, but the lady who found the body thinks he was killed earlier today.”
“She’s a retired pathology assistant,” DC King said.

“She worked alongside The Ghoul,” Smith said.

“You’re kidding?” It was Bridge. “That must have been entertaining.”
“Have I missed something?” DC Moore said.

“It’s not important,” DI Smyth decided. “What do we know about the first victim?”

“His ex-girlfriend isn’t going to lose any sleep over his death,” Smith said.

“Neither is the bloke he put in hospital,” DC King said.
“What about family and friends of the ex?” DI Smyth said.
“We didn’t get the chance to speak to them,” Bridge said. “Me and Harry were about to head out to the parents’ house when we found out about the body in Heslington.”

“This has nothing to do with the family and friends of the victims of the dead men,” Smith said, out of the blue.

“Please explain,” DC Moore said.

“One dead scumbag, you could justify it,” Smith said. “But we’ve got three corpses who all committed violent crimes against women. These men didn’t know each other, and there’s nothing to link them together apart from their tendency to hurt females. This is about something else.”
“What?” Bridge asked. “And if you say you’ll let us know when you’ve figured it out, my earlier outburst will seem like a minor tantrum.”
“I think we have an avenger out there,” Smith said.

“This is York, Sarge,” DC King said. “This isn’t a fictional city in a comic book.”
“Where do the authors of comic books get their ideas from, Kerry?” Smith said. “What we have here looks like a classic case of vengeance. The dead men hurt women. They didn’t pay a high enough price for what they did, and whoever it is that’s responsible for the murders is hell bent on doing something about that. There will be more – we’re going to have more dead bodies soon. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Janet and Bert Watkins answered the door together. Jemma’s parents looked at Bridge and DC Moore with identical expressions on their faces. Both of them looked eager to find out who the two men on their doorstep were.

Bridge told them. “Can we come in for a chat?”

“Of course,” Janet said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’ll show you through to the sitting room,” Bert added.

The sitting room was a tiny space adjacent to the living room. The only available places to do any sitting in it were taken up by two two-seater couches. Bert instructed Bridge and DC Moore to take their pick and went to help his wife in the kitchen.

“They’re weird,” DC Moore whispered.

“Yorkshire is full of people like them,” Bridge said.

He looked out of the window. Someone was outside in the garden. A woman was trimming the hedge at the back. She was attacking the shrub with a hedge trimmer, and she wasn’t holding back. She stopped hacking and stepped back to admire her work. When she turned to look back at the house Bridge saw that she was wearing a pair of sunglasses even though the sun hadn’t shown its face all day.

“Our Tanya gets a bit carried away with the hedge trimmers sometimes.”
Janet had come inside the room. She placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the table.

“Shall I be Mum?”

“Nothing for me thanks,” Bridge told her.

“I’d like a cuppa if it’s not too much trouble,” DC Moore said.

“No trouble at all,” Janet said. “Milk and sugar?”
“Milk,” DC Moore said. “Two sugars please.”
“Coming up. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“London. I’ve been here a couple of years.”
“Lovely,” Janet said. “Bert and me went there once. Too much noise for him – he prefers the peace and quiet of Yorkshire. He grew up in a village right in the middle of the moors, you know.”
She made the tea and handed a cup to DC Moore.

Bert came into the room and took a seat. “What’s this all about? We don’t often get a visit from the police.”
“We’re just carrying out some routine enquiries,” Bridge said. “We’re talking to everyone who has a connection with George Leith.”
Janet’s eyes darkened. She sat down next to her husband and slipped her hand into his.

“What about him?” Bert said. “What’s he done now?”
“He’s dead, Mr Watkins,” DC Moore said.

“Good,” Janet said.

“So, he got what was coming to him?” Bert said. “His type always do in the end. I wanted to kill him myself at one stage.”
“He wouldn’t have done it though,” Janet added. “My Bert wouldn’t hurt a fly. Was he murdered? Leith I mean?”
“He was,” Bridge confirmed.

“Whoever did it should get a medal,” Bert said.

That seems to be the general consensus, Bridge thought.

“When was the last time you saw Mr Leith?” he asked.

“It was the day of the trial,” Janet said. “We were all there.”
“Who are you referring to?” DC Moore said.

“Me, Bert, Jemma and our Tanya. We went to see him get what was coming to him. After what he did to Jemma, he should have got more than six months.”

“And he only served three of them,” Janet said. “It’s disgusting.”
“You didn’t see what he did to her,” Bert said. “They need to bring back the death sentence for people like Leith.”

“You didn’t think the sentence was enough?” Bridge said.

“Three months?” Janet said. “That’s nothing.”
“Were you bitter about it?” DC Moore said.

“I’m a firm believer in justice for all,” Bert said. “If we didn’t have law and order, we’d descend into chaos, wouldn’t we?”
Bridge didn’t think he’d answered DC Moore’s question.

“Did the sentence he was given make you angry?” he asked.

“What I meant is we have to accept the decision of the law,” Bert clarified. “What was done was done, and it was time to move on. Our Jemma had been through enough, and dwelling on it wouldn’t be good for anyone, would it?”

“And we knew he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near her when he got out,” Janet said. “So that was something at least.”
“That was one of the conditions in his license, wasn’t it?” DC Moore said.

“It was.”

“We won’t trouble you much longer,” Bridge said. “We’d like to talk to your other daughter if that’s OK.”
“She won’t thank you for interrupting her while she’s at work,” Bert said. “She takes her gardening very seriously.”
“We can speak to her outside,” Bridge said. “Finish your tea, Harry.”
“You haven’t touched the biscuits,” Janet said.

“I’m not hungry,” DC Moore said.

“I’ll stick half a dozen in a bag for you. I made them fresh this morning.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“You’ll thank me for it later. They’re my own secret recipe.”
“I’ll show you outside,” Bert said. “Come on.”
     He led them through the kitchen and outside into the back garden. Tanya had finished trimming the hedge and now she was busy deadheading the roses.

“Tanya,” Bert shouted. “There’s some police detectives who’d like a word with you.”
She turned to face them. She didn’t remove the sunglasses.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re speaking to people with a connection to George Leith,” Bridge said. “It’s just routine.”
“Is he dead?” Tanya asked.

The question knocked Bridge off guard. He really wasn’t expecting it.

“What makes you say that?” DC Moore said.

“Why else would a couple of detectives be asking about him?”
She turned back around and lopped off a wilted rose.

“Mr Leith is dead yes,” Bridge said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Probably at the trial,” Tanya said with her back turned to him. “Yes, it was at the trial.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?” DC Moore said.

“Why would I? Who killed him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Bridge said.

Tanya turned to face him again.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” he said. “The sun hasn’t been out all day.”
“I have sensitive eyes,” Tanya told him. “And these are not sunglasses – they’re tinted protective glasses.”

She took them off and handed them to him. Bridge saw that she was telling the truth. He handed them back and she put them on again.

“I learned the hard way,” she said. “Once, when I was trimming the hedges, I got a flyaway twig in my eye. It nearly blinded me. Can I ask why you’re here asking questions about George Leith? That was a part of our lives we’d prefer to forget. Have you been to see Jemma?”
“We have,” Bridge said. “Like I said – this is just routine. It’s early days in the investigation and we’re exploring all avenues at this stage.”
“Well I can tell you that this particular avenue leads to a dead end. Will there be anything else? I have a lot to do.”
Bridge looked at DC Moore then he turned to face Tanya Watkins again.

“I think we’ve covered everything. Thank you for your time.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Smith was frustrated. It was getting late and the research he’d spent the last three hours on hadn’t yielded much. He’d focused on the symbolism of the finger in the victims’ mouths, and he hadn’t had much luck. Smith knew the fingers were important, and he needed to look into what the significance of them could be. The digits stuffed in the mouths of George Leith and Jonathan Peterson had been index fingers and both of them were removed from the left hand, so Smith reckoned this had to be important. But the information he’d managed to glean from the Internet didn’t give him many ideas about the significance of that particular finger.

Some websites talked about the index finger representing a desire for attention or a statement of self-confidence. Others mentioned its connection to Jupiter in astrology and its representation of direction. The index finger is what is used to show us the correct path. Smith couldn’t see any relevance in that when he connected it to the recent murders.

In Eastern spirituality the index finger is associated with the Anahata Chakra - the heart and, according to those beliefs it is responsible for balance, serenity and intuition. Another belief is the index finger aids with connection to our instinct and our ability to reflect. Smith didn’t think it had any bearing in this instance either.

After barking up wrong tree after wrong tree for hours he admitted defeat and closed down his laptop. The answers he was looking for weren’t to be found in the pages on the Internet. He would have to look elsewhere for them. A glance at the screen on his phone told him it was after six, and he had a sudden craving for a steak and ale pie. Even though he’d eaten a beef pie for lunch, there was nothing to compare with one of Marge’s steak and ale pies.

He decided to phone Whitton to suggest they meet at the Hog’s Head. His finger was hovering over her number when his ringtone sounded. The number on the screen wasn’t one in his list of contacts. He answered the call anyway.

“Smith.”
“Is this Detective Jason Smith?” It was a woman.

“That’s right. Who is this?”
“I’d prefer not to say.”
“Can I help you with something?” Smith asked.

His stomach was growling at him. He could almost taste the pie.

“I know something about the dead men.”
“Where did you get my number?”

“From the man on the switchboard.”
“And I’m sure he told you that there were proper procedures to go through where information pertaining to a crime is concerned,” Smith said. “I suggest you follow them.”
“I know about the fingers in their mouths.”

Smith was wide awake now. He’d forgotten all about the steak and ale pie. It was possible that the deaths of George Leith and Jonathan Peterson were now public knowledge. It didn’t take long these days, but the part about the severed fingers hadn’t yet been released to the press.

“Can we meet?” the woman said. “I’d rather not discuss this over the phone.”
“Of course,” Smith said. “Where did you have in mind?”
“Somewhere safe. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you everything when we meet. But we need to do it somewhere safe.”
“I know just the place,” Smith said. “Give me an hour.”
He told her what he had in mind and ended the call.

He called Whitton straight afterwards and persuaded her to join him and the mystery woman at the Hog’s Head. She was reluctant to agree at first, but Smith pointed out that she’d been left out of the investigation, and this would be a chance to bring her up to speed. He also suspected that the woman who’d called him would be more willing to talk with another woman present. He got the impression that the phone call had been extremely difficult for her to make. Whitton told him that she would ask Lucy and Darren to keep an eye on Laura and Fran and she would meet him at the Hog’s Head in an hour.

Smith rubbed his eyes and stretched out his arms. He left his office and went to find DI Smyth. He wanted to tell him about the mystery caller. He was in luck. The DI was leaving his own office when Smith walked down the corridor.

“I’ve just had the weirdest phone call,” he said.

“Prank caller?” DI Smyth said.

“I don’t think so. It was a woman, and she seemed to know a little bit too much about the recent murders.”
“Did you get a name?”
“She wouldn’t give me one,” Smith said. “She sounded scared. We’ve agreed to meet.”
“Are you sure she’s the real deal?”
“She knew the details of the murders, boss,” Smith said. “She said she knew about the two murders, and she also knew about the severed fingers. As far as I’m aware that detail hasn’t been released to the press.”
“No,” DI Smyth said. “No, it hasn’t.”
“Whitton is going to meet me there,” Smith said. “I thought having a woman there might put her more at ease.”
“Good call. When is this happening?”
“In just under an hour.”

“Why didn’t she just come here?”

“She’s scared,” Smith said. “She said they have eyes and ears everywhere. I think we’re onto something here.”

“I’m heading home,” DI Smyth said. “Keep me up to date.”
“Will do. Where is everyone else?”
“Bridge, Kerry and Harry have left for the day. We’re not going to get any further along today. We’ll have more from Pathology and Forensics tomorrow. Good luck with your mystery woman.”
“We’re going to get a break this evening,” Smith said. “I just know it.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You’re hogging the bottle again.”
Gavin Higgins held out his hand.

Oliver Swales took another swig from the white cider and passed the bottle to his friend. Gavin wiped the top with his sleeve and gulped down the extra-strength cider.

He belched and grinned. “That’s better.”
“Why do you always wipe the bottle first?” Oliver said. “You know it pisses me off.”
“I don’t want to catch anything nasty. I know where you’ve been.”
“Cheeky bastard.”
“Tracy Watts is a skank,” Gavin said. “God knows what you’ve caught from her.”
“If I could be bothered,” Oliver said. “I’d beat the crap out of you for that.”
“In your dreams. I’m bored. Do you want to go and smash a few windows over at the industrial estate?”
“Nah,” Oliver said. “Can’t be arsed.”

“I’m bored,” Gavin said once more. “I feel like doing something.”
“We are doing something.”
“Sitting in a crappy alley drinking White Lightning?” Gavin said. “Very exciting. Come on – let’s go and smash some windows.”
He helped his friend to his feet and almost dropped the bottle in the process.

They’d almost reached the end of the alley when the sound of voices caused both teenagers to stop in their tracks. They were familiar voices and the sound of them made them retrace their steps.

“Fuck,” Gavin said. “What are they doing here?”
“Probably looking for us,” Oliver said. “We’d better find somewhere to hide. You do not want to bump into the Watts brothers in a dark alley.”

The voices got louder, and Gavin and Oliver turned and ran. Gavin dropped the bottle of cider and didn’t bother to pick it up.

“What have we here?” It was Jimmy, the elder of the Watts brothers.

Jimmy had threatened to end Oliver’s life when he’d found him upstairs with his sister Tracy. He started to walk towards the two boys in the alley. He moved with no haste.

Gavin and Oliver realised why he was in no hurry when they’d almost reached the other end of the alleyway. Jimmy’s brother, Carl was approaching. He’d gone round the block so he could cut them off.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Gavin said.

“You asked for trouble when you thought you could fuck my little sister,” Carl said to Oliver.

Gavin looked at Oliver and nodded to the rows of wheelie bins lined up against the fences of the houses.

“We can hop over the fence and get out through the back yard,” he whispered.

Oliver nodded. Jimmy and Carl Watts moved in.

Gavin ran towards the bins with Oliver close behind him. Oliver calculated where he would need to place his foot to launch himself over the fence and that’s when he spotted the hand. In his panic, he didn’t notice that one of the fingers was missing from it. He managed to scramble over the fence, but Gavin wasn’t so fortunate. He felt hands on his back, and he was dragged to the ground.

“What the fuck?” It was Jimmy Watts.

The elder brother was staring, wide-eyed at something on the ground. He let go of Gavin Higgins and took a step back.

“Shit.” Carl had seen it too.

The man was on his back. His eyes were open, as was his mouth. The finger sticking out of it was what the three youths were looking at. Gavin doubled up and a spurt of white cider came out of his mouth. The sour stench of it made Jimmy Watts gag but he managed to compose himself.

What none of them knew right then was the identity of the dead man in the alley was going to throw a blanket of confusion over the entire investigation York CID were in the middle of.

* * *

Whitton was already there when Smith arrived at the Hog’s Head. She was chatting to Marge at the bar. Smith walked over and joined them. He kissed Whitton on the cheek.

“Hello, Marge,” he said to the owner of the pub.

“Jason,” she said. “It’s always lovely to see you both. Theakston?”
“I could kill for one,” Smith said.

Marge poured the beer and placed it on the bar counter. Smith thanked her and took a long drink.

“Shall we sit at a table?” he said.

The pub was busy and there were only a few free tables to choose from. Smith found one that would enable him to see the door. He wanted to see who came in and out of the pub. Whitton sat opposite him.

“Who is this woman?” she said.

“I have no idea.”
He realised then that he didn’t even know what she looked like. He told Whitton as much.

“Maybe you should have asked her to wear something specific,” she said. “Isn’t that what they do in the movies? Do you think she’s even going to show up?”
“I have no idea,” Smith said. “She was the one who phoned me.”

“Call her,” Whitton suggested. “Her number will be in your call history. Call her and ask her what she looks like.”
     The call went straight to voicemail. Smith tried again with the same result.

“This is a complete waste of time,” Whitton said.

“Not really,” Smith said. “I’m starving. I need a steak and ale pie to fill the gap in my stomach. The mystery woman will turn up – why wouldn’t she?”

A waiter came to the table and Smith asked for another two pints of Theakston. He decided to wait a while before he ordered the food. He was convinced the woman he’d spoken to would turn up.

He was proven right shortly afterwards.

“Are you waiting for me?”

She was a short woman with suspicious eyes.

“Are you the woman who phoned me?” Smith asked.

She nodded. “I recognised you from the papers.”
“Take a seat,” Smith said. “This is Detective Sergeant Whitton.”
“What do we call you?” Whitton asked.

“You can call me Sue.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Smith suspected that Sue wasn’t her real name, but he didn’t think that really mattered. After getting her a drink and recommending the steak and ale pie he got down to business.

“Why did you call me?”

“Because it’s going to get worse.”
“What do you mean by that?” Whitton asked.

“Can I trust you?” Sue said.

“You can,” Smith said. “Nothing you tell us will be divulged to anyone apart from the people on our team, and you can trust all of them implicitly.”
“If she finds out I’ve talked to you,” Sue said. “She’ll kill me. I know she will.”
“Who are you talking about?” Whitton said.

“I don’t know her name.”

“OK,” Smith said. “Tell us how you knew about the fingers in their mouths.”
“Because I was there,” Sue said. “The night they killed him.”
Smith didn’t expect this. He was also confused. She’d said killed him – singular, where did the other victims come into the equation?

“When we spoke on the phone,” he said. “You talked about the men who had been murdered, and now you’re referring to one.”
“I knew they planned to kill more. And when I read about the second murder victim I knew it was connected.”
The door to the pub opened and Sue flinched. Her expression softened when she saw that it was an elderly man.

“You’re safe here,” Whitton said.

“Tell us some more,” Smith said. “You were there when one of the men was killed. When was this?”
“Yesterday evening,” Sue said. “It was horrible. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, but it still came as quite a shock.”
“Where did the murder take place?” Whitton said.

“At a house in Foxwood. She has more than one.”

“More than one property?”

Sue nodded.
“Do you remember the exact address?” Smith said.

“It was one of the Courts,” Sue said. “There are a lot of them in Foxwood, and I can’t remember the exact one.”
     The waiter came back, and Smith was glad. He’d drained his beer without even realising it. He ordered more drinks and three steak and ale pies.

“Why did this woman kill these men?” he asked the woman who called herself Sue.

“Because they deserved to die,” she said.

“Was it something to do with their history of violence?” Whitton said.

“Mostly. I’ve said enough already, so I might as well tell you everything.”
“Go back to the very beginning,” Smith suggested.

“I was in an abusive relationship for a while,” Sue began. “I don’t even know how it started but it did. I never thought I’d turn into one of those women who stick around even though their partner is using them as a punchbag – I could never understand those women, but I became one of them.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Whitton said. “It’s more common than people think.”
“Well that’s what happened,” Sue said. “I became a cliché, and I got stuck in some kind of perverted cycle. He would hit me, feel remorse and apologise profusely. Hell, he even broke down and cried his eyes out sometimes. He’d promise me it was never going to happen again, and it didn’t until it did. You must have seen it before in your line of work.”
Smith had, but this wasn’t about him.

“Go on,” he said.

“He went too far one night,” Sue said. “I had to be taken to hospital and the police got involved. Of course he begged me not to press charges, but there was a woman in the same ward as me who’d gone through something similar and she got me thinking. We spoke for hours, and she buoyed me somehow. It probably sounds crazy.”
“Not at all,” Whitton said.

“She gave me the strength to stand up to him. I looked him in the eye and told him what I was going to do. Again, he tried to get me to change my mind and when he realised that wasn’t going to happen, he said I would regret it if I went through with it. I told him, no – you will. I’d never felt as strong as I did that night. I was more powerful than him right then, and he knew it. He got himself a good lawyer and he got eighteen months. He was out after a year.”

The food arrived and Smith thought it would be better to carry on the conversation after they’d eaten. The pie was delicious, and all three of them finished at roughly the same time.

“That was really good,” Sue said.

“Best pies in Yorkshire,” Smith said. “Are you ready to carry on?”
Sue nodded. “After the sentencing I felt numb. It had taken everything I had inside me to stand up to him and he got off with not much more than a slap on the wrist. I was deflated. All that energy I’d summoned was for nothing.”
“I understand,” Whitton said.

“What did you do?” Smith said.

“Nothing,” Sue told him. “What could I do? But then I bumped into the woman who was in the hospital that night. She suggested we go for a coffee and I agreed. We got chatting and she told me about a group she knew about that might be able to make things right for me.”
“A support group?” Smith said.

“Not exactly,” Sue said. “It was a group that had been carefully selected because they’d all been through the same thing.”
“All the women were victims of physical abuse,” Smith guessed. “And all of them were furious that the law hadn’t punished the perpetrators sufficiently?”
“Close,” Sue said. “The bit about the abuse is correct, but they aren’t all women – half of the victims of abuse in the group are men.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“It was enlightening at first,” Sue carried on.

She was quite animated now, and Smith decided to let her speak without interruption.

“The woman who led the meetings seemed to know exactly what we’d all been through, and I assumed she’d suffered something similar. She was one of those… Cult of personalities, I think they’re called. They have this natural charisma that makes you take notice of them. She made us all feel so comfortable, and everyone hung onto her every word.”
“Did you know any of the other people there?” Whitton asked.

“No,” Sue said. “And that was one of the rules. No names. The woman said our names were irrelevant there. What we were before had no bearing in the meetings. It was all about what we were going to become from there on.”

“Which was?” Smith said.

“I’m coming to that.”
“Let her talk,” Whitton said.

“I need to use the toilet. I won’t be long.”

When he returned to the table Whitton had her hand on Sue’s shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” he asked and sat down.

“I had a bit of a funny turn,” Sue said. “I thought I could do this, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
“You’re being extremely brave,” Smith told her. “And you’re safe with us. We will not let anything happen to you.”
“You don’t know what this woman is capable of.”
“And you don’t know what we’re capable of,” Smith said. “Are you feeling up to carrying on?”
Sue nodded and took a sip of her beer.

“I was drawn in quickly. We all were. It was as if all the hopelessness we’d felt before was being drained away by what the woman was telling us. It sounds like a cliché, but it was like a weight was lifted and I felt lighter than I’d felt in years. It was euphoric, and I felt like I was finally taking back control of my life.”

“Can you tell us a bit about what went on at the meetings?” Smith said.

“To begin with we were told that we were under no obligation to talk about what had happened to us. I felt completely at ease there. Some of the others spoke about the torture they’d been subjected to, and they were promised that it would get better. The balance would be reset in their favour.”
“What do you think the woman meant by that?” Whitton asked.

“At first I just assumed that she was going to help to heal us by getting us to talk about what had happened. It was a kind of therapy, but then things took a darker turn. The meetings became more… How can I put it? Ritualistic. She started referring to us as adherents to her Creed, and she would make us do things that made me feel uncomfortable.”
“Can you tell us some of the things she made you do?” Smith said.

“It started off with small things,” Sue said. “Pledges that we had to make. I don’t know if you’re aware of the film Fight Club.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Smith said.

“Well, it was a bit like that. What happened at the meetings was to stay at the meetings. We weren’t to tell anyone about what was discussed there, and if anyone did probe us, we were to remain silent. That was extremely important to her – the silence. But then things went too far.”
“What happened?” Whitton said.

“Once, when I arrived, I saw that she’d brought someone along with her,” Sue said. “That was the night she forced us to take a vow of silence. I don’t know how she did it, but it was like she’d cast a spell over us all and we had no choice. The person she’d brought along was a young man. She explained why he was there – he had a long history of violence against women, and she persuaded some of the others to dare to experience what it felt like to wield the power for once. I didn’t join in, but most of the others did.”
“What did they do to him?” Whitton said.

“It was a free for all. Kicks and punches, and it lasted a long time. I don’t know what they did with his body, but he was never spoken about again.”
“Did they kill him?” Smith said.

Sue nodded. “I knew I needed to stop going there, but I think the woman expected some of us to feel like that. She explained that we all now shared a secret, and if that secret ever got out every one of us would suffer.”
“But you weren’t complicit in the actual murder,” Smith said.

“You don’t know this woman. She would have made sure I paid.”
     Smith was finding it hard to comprehend what the woman called Sue had told them. He’d heard about sadistic cults before, but this was in another league altogether.

“Why did you contact me?” he said. “Why now?”
“Because she needs to be stopped,” Sue said.

“That’s not what I meant. You told us you were afraid that you would suffer if you told the truth, so what changed?”

“It’s wrong,” Sue said. “What she’s doing is wrong. We ended up being no better than the people who were responsible for making us want to attend the meetings in the first place. I want to help you stop her.”

“Can you tell us what this woman looks like?” Smith said.

“The meetings always took place in a dark room,” Sue said. “Minimal light from a couple of lamps. She’s about my height and I can tell you she has lifeless eyes.”
“Lifeless eyes?” Whitton repeated.

“Dead eyes,” Sue said. “Like she has no more humanity left inside her.”

Smith ordered another round of drinks and looked around the pub. It was getting late, and half the customers had left.

“I appreciate you coming to me with this information,” he said. “But we need to do this on record.”
Sue shook her head. “I’m not going to do that.”
“What you’ve told us so far needs to be documented,” Whitton explained. “We need it on the record.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Sue said. “And you can’t make me do it.”
“We can make sure you’re safe,” Smith said. “That’s a promise.”
“I can’t. The last person who tried to go to the police is dead. I watched them kill him last night.”

Smith was confused. So far, he’d assumed the victims of this Creed were all people responsible for inflicting abuse on others but what Sue had told them meant that one of the victims of abuse was now a victim of murder.

“Who was the man you witnessed them kill last night?” he asked.

“I didn’t know his name,” Sue said. “But I’d heard him speak about the abusive relationship he’d just left. His wife had been physically assaulting him for years and he put up with it. He finally built up enough courage to stand up to her and contacted the police. He managed to get a restraining order and that’s about all he spoke about in the meetings.”
“Why did they kill him?” Whitton said. “Why kill a fellow member of the Creed?”
“Because he threatened to spill the beans about what was happening at the meetings. That’s why I can’t put anything on record. If I do, she’ll kill me too. I want to help you, but I need to remain anonymous.”
     Smith realised two things at the same time. They were dealing with an extremely ruthless individual in the woman who was the leader of the Creed. The second thing that occurred to him was there was another dead man out there who was yet to be discovered.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“The adoption agency phoned while you were in the shower,” Whitton told Smith the next morning. “They want us to come in for a chat.”
“What for?” Smith said.

“They didn’t say.”
“Do we both have to be there?”
“Apparently, yes,” Whitton said.

“When?”
“Half-nine. I’ve spoken to the DI and he’s fine with us being a bit late.”
“This is the last thing we need right now,” Smith said.

This was an understatement. The conversation with the woman who called herself Sue had been a disturbing one. She’d gone on to talk at length about the vow of silence the members of the Creed had taken. Every single one of them had pledged some kind of allegiance to the woman running the show and Smith wasn’t sure what to do next.

Sue had also explained the reason for the severed fingers. According to her the finger in the mouth was supposed to symbolise taking back control. Smith didn’t buy it and he told Sue as much. The leader of the Creed had told them that the finger was no longer pointing at them – the tables had turned. Sue said it was meant to represent the power the disciples now held over those who’d once abused them. Smith thought this was a load of bull too. He decided that the finger in the mouth was just another sick idea of a woman who was not only delusional – she was extremely dangerous.

He’d debated whether to arrest Sue right there at the Hog’s Head. If what she’d told them was the truth, then she was an accomplice to a murder they didn’t yet know about. It was enough to justify taking her into custody, but Smith decided it probably wouldn’t amount to anything. Sue had told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to do this officially, and Smith suspected that the vow of silence she’d spoken about would come into effect. She wasn’t going to tell them anything else. She’d given him her contact details, for what it was worth. Smith also suspected that she wasn’t going to take his calls, and when he tried phoning the number she’d called him on his suspicions were confirmed. The calls went straight to voicemail.

There was still over an hour to go before the appointment at the adoption agency, so Smith phoned DI Smyth to let him know how the meeting with Sue went. He gave him a heads-up about the area of the city she’d mentioned, and DI Smyth agreed to organise a door-to-door in Foxwood. It was a long shot – there were a labyrinth of courts in that part of the city, but it was a shot worth taking.

DI Smyth told him about the man found in the alleyway in Derwenthorpe. A group of youths had discovered the body last night. The man’s left index finger had been severed and placed in his mouth. Smith wondered if it was the same man Sue had spoken about. He didn’t have time to discuss it, but he made a mental note to bring it up when he got to work later.

“Perhaps you should have a shave,” Whitton suggested when Smith had finished talking to DI Smyth. “You look a bit rough.”
“I look like I always look,” Smith said.

“I think we should try to make a good impression at the adoption agency.”
“Walter fucking Plover is going to make life hell for us whatever I look like,” Smith said. “The man is a dickhead.”
“This is important, Jason.”
The tone of her voice told Smith it wasn’t up for debate. He gave her a half smile and went upstairs to see if he could disguise the fact that he’d barely slept even after consuming six pints of Theakston.

When he came back down ten minutes later, he felt a bit better. He’d shaved off the three days’ worth of stubble and changed into the only thing that passed for smart attire in his wardrobe. The white shirt and black chinos felt strange when he put them on.

“I did my best.”

Whitton hugged him tightly.

“You don’t scrub up too badly when you have to. Thank you.”

Theakston and Fred came into the kitchen. Theakston made a beeline for his food bowl and stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Smith. The aged Bull Terrier observed the man he’d lived with for over a decade as though he was an alien. The low growl came from nowhere.

“It’s me, boy,” Smith told him.

He dared to lean over and scratch Theakston’s head. The portly dog backed away and headed outside.

“I’m going out for a quick smoke,” Smith told Whitton and followed Theakston out.

The air was warm and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Smith turned his head to face the sun. He loved days like this in York. Soon the temperatures would drop, and the dark days would follow. Smith didn’t mind that either – he’d got used to the Yorkshire winters where the sun didn’t really work properly.

He lit a cigarette and checked his phone for messages. There weren’t any. He brought up his call log and dialled the last number in it. The monotonous voice of the woman told him the person he was trying to contact wasn’t available right now. Smith had expected it. He didn’t think he was going to be able to get in touch with the woman who called herself Sue again.

Laura came outside with Fran Rogers.

“You’re up early,” Smith said.

“You look funny,” Laura told him.

“I feel funny,” Smith told her. “Even Theakston didn’t recognise me.”
“Why are you wearing that?” It was Fran.

Smith realised the five words she’d spoken were the only words she’d spoken to him in over a week.

“Erica and me have to go and see someone at the adoption agency,” he said. “It’s important that I look smart if they’re going to take me seriously. I’m wearing these weird clothes to make sure you get to live with us. Is that what you want?”
Fran nodded and her lips curled up in a grin. The smile reached her eyes, and she looked at Smith.

“You look nice.”
“Thank you,” Smith said. “I hope it does the trick. We’d better be going. Wish me luck.”
The smile on Fran’s face faded and was replaced with an expression of mild confusion.

Smith stubbed out his cigarette. “Never mind. I’ll see you later.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Smith and Whitton told the receptionist who they were and they were asked to take a seat. They were fifteen minutes early. The new school term hadn’t yet begun, and the roads were quiet. They sat down on the bench in the reception area. Neither of them said a word. Smith looked around the room. The walls were covered with posters depicting happy looking children with even happier looking adults. Smith thought about Fran Rogers and he wondered if she would ever look like the kids staring at him from the walls of the reception area. There was still a long way to go – Smith remembered how Lucy had been when they’d first adopted her. She was much older than Fran and Smith knew they were facing a long, uphill slog.

“Mr Plover will see you now,” the receptionist informed them. “Down the corridor – last door on the right.”
“Ready?” Whitton asked Smith.

“Fuck, yes,” Smith replied.

The receptionist smiled at him. Smith smiled back, and the receptionist mouthed the words, good luck. They passed the woman who’d come to see them with Walter Plover the day before. Smith remembered that her name was Bianca. She also wished them luck and gave them a warm smile.

Walter Plover looked Smith up and down when he and Whitton went inside the office and Smith didn’t like it one little bit. He felt like he was attending a job interview.

“Take a seat,” the officious adoption agent said.

Smith and Whitton sat down opposite him at his desk.

Walter opened up a file in front of him and looked at it for a moment. Smith took the time to scan the office. The room wasn’t big, but it was neat and tidy. Smith deduced that Walter Plover was a man who liked everything in its place.

“Right,” Walter said.

He placed his hands, palms down on the desk and Smith was reminded of a time when he was called to the principal’s office when he was a teenager in Australia. He was suspended from school for a week on that occasion and he hoped that the outcome of this meeting wouldn’t be so dire.

“Thank you for coming in at such short notice,” Walter said.

“Is there a problem?” Smith asked.

“I believe there is. I’m not yet completely satisfied that we have enough to approve you and Mrs Smith as applicant adopters at this stage.”

“What more do you need?” Whitton said.

“I still have some concerns about your home environment.”
“What kind of concerns?” Smith said.

“There is the issue of the teenage mother,” Walter said. “Lucy was released into your care, and she fell pregnant within a year. That is rather concerning.”
“What has that got to do with Fran?” Smith said.

Walter Plover didn’t answer the question.

“You both work irregular hours,” he said instead. “Is that correct?”
“It comes with the job,” Smith said. “We can get called out at any time, but it’s never affected our ability to look after the kids.”
“My parents are always happy to help when we’re called into work,” Whitton added. “And our superior officers are very flexible. The police isn’t like it used to be – family is very important and allowances are made in emergencies.”
“I see,” Walter said. “Fran and your biological daughter Laura attend the same school, don’t they?”
“That’s right,” Smith said. “The new term is about to start. It’s a five-minute walk from where we live.”
Walter raised an eyebrow.

“What my husband means,” Whitton said. “Is when one of us is able to walk the girls to school, that’s what happens. Of course, we wouldn’t let them walk on their own. And Lucy and Darren are always happy to help.”
“The home environment you speak of works very well,” Smith said. “When we took Fran in after her mother died, the house was getting a bit crowded, so we bought the house next door. Lucy, Darren and Andrew live there and Laura and Fran stay with us. It works for all of us. It’s actually very convenient.”
The phone on the desk rang three times and stopped.

“Let’s talk some more about the house you recently purchased,” Walter said. “Fran’s mother was killed there, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” Smith confirmed.

“That is rather troubling.”
“Why?” Smith said. “Fran spent many happy years with her mum in that house. She doesn’t know the details of what happened there, and I believe us buying it can offer her some semblance of normality.”
“I’m afraid your version of normality differs greatly from mine,” Walter said.

“What do you need from us?” Whitton said. “We want to take care of Fran and she wants to live with us. Tell us what we need to do to make that happen.”
“As I’ve said before,” Walter said. “It is imperative that we speak to the child before we make any final recommendations. Here at the agency, it is the wellbeing of the child that matters most.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Smith said. “But I don’t think Fran will open up to you. No offence, but you’re not exactly what could be termed as approachable.”
“What Jason means is it would probably be better for Fran to speak someone less intimidating.”

“I agree,” Walter said.

Smith was surprised. He wasn’t expecting this.

“What I suggest is this,” Walter said. “I would like to get Fran evaluated by a child psychologist. We have to put the welfare of the child first, and before I can make any kind of recommendation, I believe we need to seek the opinion of an expert. Do you have any objections?”
“How long is this going to take?” Smith asked.

“As long as it takes. The adoption agency has a number of qualified psychologists we’ve used in the past, or you are welcome to opt for the services of a professional of your choosing. Of course, he or she will have to be approved by the agency, and the cost incurred will fall directly to yourselves.”
“We know someone,” Smith said without thinking.

Whitton glared at him.

“I’ll forward you her details,” Smith added. “I’m sure you’ll find that she’s suitably qualified.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘You can’t be serious?”

Whitton’s eyes were focused on the road ahead. The appointment with Walter Plover hadn’t gone any further. Smith had promised to forward him the details of the psychologist he had in mind and Walter had concluded the meeting.

“I’m deadly serious,” Smith said. “Dr Vennell happens to be an exceptional psychologist, and she will swing things in our favour.”
“I’m going to advocate using the services of a woman who is clearly in love with my husband to help us prove that we’re suitable candidates for adoption?” Whitton said. “Do you realise how that’s going to look?”
“I suppose it does sound pretty bad when you put it like that,” Smith admitted. “But the adoption agency doesn’t need to know the details.”
“It’s going to come back to bite us on the arse.”
“Think about it rationally, Erica,” Smith said. “Dr Vennell already knows Fran’s history. She also knows how much we care for the girl and the fact that she may have a couple of feelings for me will work in our favour.”
“A couple of feelings?” Whitton said. “The woman doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.”
She slammed on the brakes and narrowly missed the back of a car that had stopped at the traffic lights.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Smith said. “Do you want me to drive?”
Whitton didn’t reply. The lights turned to green, she engaged first gear and eased her foot off the clutch. The rest of the drive passed in silence, and Smith knew better than to break it. He could understand Whitton’s misgivings – she’d never warmed to Fiona Vennell, but Smith couldn’t think of another way out. There was a possibility that Fran Rogers would be taken away from them and Smith wasn’t going to stand by and watch that happen.

Whitton parked the car at the station, got out and walked towards the entrance alone. Smith let her go. He lit a cigarette and thought about the appointment with Walter Plover. He got the impression that the pedantic adoption agent had taken a dislike to him from the onset, and now he was doing everything he could to make life difficult.

“Two can play at that game,” Smith told no one in particular.

He smoked half the cigarette, threw it on the ground and headed for the entrance. He was already late because of the appointment, and he was eager to throw himself back into the investigation. He spotted Grant Webber’s car as he walked, and he knew the Head of Forensics had something important to share with the team.

It turned out that Smith and Whitton hadn’t missed much when they finally went inside the small conference room. DI Smyth had spent the morning updating the team on the information the woman called Sue had brought to their attention. Smith and Whitton knew all of this already.

“Is there anything you’d like to add?” DI Smyth asked Smith. “We’ve spoken at length about the nature of these Creed meetings, but it would be good to get your take on what your mystery woman told you.”
“I got the impression that she was telling the truth,” Smith said. “And she seemed genuinely concerned for her safety. The woman in charge of everything seems to have extraordinary charisma and she appears to be a master manipulator. She chooses her disciples carefully and she manipulates them by abusing their vulnerability.”
“All of the people chosen have suffered physical abuse in the past,” Whitton joined in.

“A congregation of pissed-off women,” Bridge said, and let out a whistle. “That is a dangerous group of people.”
“Half of the members of the Creed are men,” Smith informed him.

“You’re kidding me?”
“Men can be victims of abuse too,” DC King said.

“What have you got for us?” Smith asked Webber.

“Quite a bit,” Webber said. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the body that was found in Derwenthorpe last night.”
“The boss told me about it,” Smith said.

“We prioritised the prints,” Webber said.

“His fingerprints aren’t in the database, are they?” Smith said.

“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling I get.”
“Well, I have to inform you that for once your gut is mistaken,” Webber said. “The prints are on file, but not for the same reason as the others. The man’s name is Brian Colton, and he was arrested earlier in the year. He was apprehended leaving a house he’d just robbed. It was his first offence, and he got a caution and a fine.”
“Why was he killed by the people of the Creed then?” DC Moore wondered. “Burglary is a far cry from wife-beating.”
     Smith knew his gut instinct had actually been correct. He knew for a fact that Brian Colton was the man Sue referred to last night.

“I think Brian Colton was a member of the Creed,” he said. “He suffered years of abuse at the hands of his wife. He was murdered because he got cold feet and threatened to leave the congregation and talk to the police.”
“You can’t be serious, Sarge,” DC Moore said.

“It’ll be easy to check,” Whitton said. “The woman we spoke to said he filed a restraining order against his wife. The order was granted, and it’ll be on file somewhere.”
“Could you check that out for us please, Harry?” DI Smyth said.

“I’ll get right onto it,” DC Moore said.

“Uniforms are busy with a door-to-door in Foxwood,” DI Smyth said.

“Sue mentioned something about a house there,” Smith elaborated. “It’s where some of the Creed meetings took place.”
“She said the woman had lifeless eyes,” Whitton remembered. “She couldn’t give us much more of a description but she did say the woman in charge had dead eyes.”
“I’ll make sure the uniforms are aware of this,” DI Smyth said.

DC Moore came back inside the room.

“You were right, Sarge.”
“I thought so,” Smith said.

“Brian Colton did take out a restraining order on his wife. What exactly are we dealing with here?”
“Something none of us has ever come up against before, Harry,” Smith said. “Something nastier than any of us has ever seen.”

“I’m not quite finished,” Webber said. “I wouldn’t have come here in person for a mere snippet of info. Why are you dressed like that, by the way?”

The question was posed to Smith.

“You never know when you’ll be invited to a funeral at the drop of a hat,” he said. “I like to be prepared.”

“You’re not right in the head, Sarge,” DC Moore said.

“Where’s the fun in that?”
“That’s enough,” DI Smyth. “Go on, Grant.”
“We found something significant,” Webber said.
“I like the sound of this,” Smith said.

“I happen to be blessed with an exceptional team,” Webber said. “And Billie Jones in particular never fails to impress me.”
Smith found himself glancing across at Bridge who in turn shrugged his shoulders in response.

“You’ll be glad to hear that the finger we retrieved from Mr Colton’s mouth was indeed his own,” Webber said. “It was inserted, fingernail first into his mouth. Billie had the presence of mind to recreate this action back in the lab and she realised that to carry out such a task would involve the person holding the digit to grip the finger tightly.”
“You pulled another print from the finger itself, didn’t you?” Smith said.

“I was dubious,” Webber said. “The skin on the human finger isn’t the ideal surface for the transfer of prints, but we got lucky. Brian Colton’s finger was as smooth as a baby’s arse with no hairs. Billie managed to get two useable prints – one from just below the knuckle and another from the stump itself.”

“Were the dabs on file?” DC Moore said.

“Dabs?” Bridge repeated. “This is Yorkshire, Harry and we do not refer to them as dabs.”

“Once again,” Webber carried. “We got a bit of luck. We seem to be getting an awful lot of it in this investigation. The prints on the finger came from a woman who was arrested in 2019 for shoplifting. She was caught with a couple of hundred quid worth of clothes from a department store – she got off with a fine and a bit of community service.”

“Is there any other way that her prints could have ended up on the dead man’s finger?” DC Moore said.

“Impossible,” Webber said. “The positioning of the prints means it would have been physically impossible for them to get there while the finger was still attached to the hand.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The owner of the fingerprints found on Brian Colton’s severed finger was Theresa Nolan. She was forty years old, and she lived in Holgate. A car had been sent to pick her up, but Smith suspected that she wasn’t going to be the one to help them to move forward in the investigation. If Theresa was involved in Brian’s murder, there was a good chance that she would stick to the vow of silence the members of the Creed had taken.

Instead, he decided to focus on the silent victims of Jonathan Peterson. He was arrested on a number of occasions for assaulting women, and the only charge that stuck was the attack against his own mother. Unfortunately, Mrs Peterson was no longer alive. A heart attack had claimed her life last year, but Smith still thought it would be productive to speak to the women who’d refused to press charges against the man. It was possible that one of those women had been approached and asked to join the Creed.

There were three women in total. One of them had been the victim of Jonathan Peterson’s temper on four separate occasions so Smith decided to go and speak to her while the rest of the team concentrated on the other two women. Paula Fox shared a house with two other women in Newland Park. The terraced house in Swan Street was a popular choice for students. The rent was cheaper than in some parts of the city and it was a stones’ throw from the university campus.

Smith wasn’t sure if Paula would be home. The information he’d managed to find about her told him she was a mature student at the university, and it was possible she wouldn’t be back in the city for a few weeks when the new term was due to start.

He was in luck. The woman who opened the door to number 44 informed him that Paula was indeed home. She invited them in and went to fetch her housemate.

Paula was a tall, thin woman. Smith thought she looked older than her thirty-two-years. She had nervous eyes, and he wondered if Jonathan Peterson had left her with scars that had refused to heal. He introduced himself and DC King and asked if they could ask her a few questions.

“What about?” she said.

“We’d like to talk to you about Jonathan Peterson,” DC King said.

It was as though she’d been subjected to a physical blow, and all the wind had been knocked out of her.

“I know this is probably difficult for you,” Smith said. “But we really need to talk to you about Jonathan.”
“I’ve got nothing to say about that man.”
“You and he were in a relationship a few years ago,” DC King said. “Is that correct.”

Paula nodded.

“We know what he did to you,” Smith said. “And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“What do you know about what he did to me?”
“Not much,” Smith admitted.

“He was arrested a number of times,” DC King said. “But only one of the charges led to a conviction.”
“I was there,” Paula said. “You don’t have to remind me.”
“We’re not here to ask why you didn’t want to press charges,” Smith said. “You must have had your reasons.”
“Why are you here then?”

“I believe it was his mother who was responsible for him going to jail in the end,” Smith said.

“I liked Joan,” Paula said. “She didn’t take his crap. Did you see what he did to her? Did you see what he did to his own mother?”
“I wasn’t involved in the case,” Smith said.

“He beat her black and blue,” Paula said. “But Joan was strong. She was stronger than me. I heard that she died.”
“I’m afraid so.”

“Why are you asking about Jonathan?” Paula said. “Is he dead?”
“Why would you ask that?” DC King said.
“Because it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
Smith was experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. He’d been here before very recently.

“When was the last time you saw Jonathan?” he asked.

“The day he was sent down for the attack on his mother,” Paula said.
“You were at the trial?” DC King said.

“I didn’t want to go,” Paula said. “I didn’t want him to see me there, but Joan asked me to go with her. She said it would be good for me, and I suppose it was in a way.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?” Smith said.

“I didn’t want anything else to do with him. Look, I’ve put that part of my life behind me, and I don’t really want to be reminded of it. I’m making something of myself. I’m doing a Psychology degree and I’m happy for the first time in years. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Jonathan is dead,” Smith told her. “And we believe he was killed because of how he treated you and the other women he hurt. That’s why we’re here.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Paula said. “I had no idea he was dead.”
“I need to ask you this,” Smith said. “Where were you last weekend?”
“Newcastle,” Paula said without having to think.

“Can anyone confirm this?” DC King said.

“Hold on.”

She left the room and came back shortly afterwards with the woman who had opened the door to them.

“Paula definitely went to Newcastle for the weekend,” the other woman said.

“I went to visit some family there,” Paula added.

She handed Smith some train ticket stubs and took out her mobile phone. She swiped the screen and after a couple of taps, she showed it to Smith.

“This is me and my sister. The photo was taken on Saturday night.”
Smith had never been to Newcastle but he recognised the Tyne Bridge. Paula and a younger woman were smiling at the camera in front of it in a typical selfie shot.

“We’re sorry to have intruded,” he said.

He knew there was nothing else to say here. He also realised right then that the victims of the dead men had no involvement in their murders. Whoever it was that was killing these men wasn’t doing it to get revenge on a personal level – this was more on a general scale and Smith knew the people involved were going to be extremely difficult to stop.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Bridge and DC Moore were met with something similar when they spoke to another one of Jonathan Peterson’s victims, and Whitton and DI Smyth came up empty handed too. Smith’s suspicions were confirmed – the Creed that they were dealing with were killing people who had inflicted pain and torture in the past but the men and women in that Creed had no personal attachment to any of the people they were ending the lives of.

To make matters worse Theresa Nolan was refusing to talk. Smith had expected this, but he took no satisfaction in the fact that he was right. He was gathering his thoughts in the canteen with a coffee when his phone started to ring. When he looked at the screen he knew he should have expected a call from her sooner or later. It was Dr Vennell, and Smith cursed himself for not pre-warning her about a potential call from the adoption agency.

“Dr Vennell,” he answered it.

“It would have been nice to have been warned.”
It was clear that the pretty psychologist wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

“And how many times have I told you about the Dr Vennell thing?” she added.

“Fiona,” Smith humoured her. “I’m sorry – I got caught up in something and I forgot to call. It was on my list.”

“You do realise this is rather unethical,” she said.

“Just a little bit,” Smith admitted. “Will you consider it?”
“If it gets out that we’re acquainted, this could backfire.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Smith said. “I’m desperate. The bloke who holds Fran’s whole future in his hands is a prick of the first order.”
“That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?”
“You haven’t met the man,” Smith said. “He’s an anally retentive dickhead.”
“I wasn’t talking about the adoption agent. I meant the bit about Fran’s future.”
“Well that’s how it feels.”

“We can’t discuss this over the phone. I happen to have a free afternoon for once. I was planning on indulging in a spa treatment, but I can spare you an hour or two.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get away,” Smith told her. “We’re snowed under here.”
“I’m sticking my neck out for you, Jason.”
“And I appreciate it. Let me get back to you.”
     They’d no sooner said their goodbyes when DI Smyth came into the canteen. He looked stressed. He selected a coffee from the machine and joined Smith at his table.

“Problems, boss?” Smith said.

“Theresa Nolan hasn’t said a word since she was picked up,” DI Smyth said.
“We did expect that. Who brought her in?”
“PC Miller and PC Griffin.”
Smith took a drink of coffee. “There you go then. I don’t blame the woman. PC Griffin isn’t a particularly likeable man. When can I have a crack at her?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that. Miss Nolan hasn’t spoken a word. Not even when she was asked if she required legal representation. She’s been booked in, but I think it would be better if Whitton and DC King interview her.”
Smith thought about this for a moment. It didn’t take him long.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“I was expecting you to put up a bit more resistance than that,” DI Smyth said.

“Whitton and Kerry are more than capable of handling it,” Smith said. “And I think we’ll stand a greater chance of getting her to open up with two women asking the questions.”
“The prints on Brian Colton’s severed finger are pretty damning,” Di Smyth said.

“And under normal circumstances we would throw that into the mix from the onset, but I don’t think that’s how we should play this one.”
“I’m listening.”
“I get the impression that these disciples or whatever you want to call them are fiercely loyal to the leader of the Creed. They’ve taken a vow of silence and they’re going to stick to it no matter what we threaten them with.”
“What do you suggest?”

“Empathy, boss,” Smith said.

“I think I’ve seen everything now.”
“I can be sensitive when I put my mind to it. Whitton and Kerry need to empathise with the woman. Tell her they understand why she got caught up in this.”
“Is this new Smith here for the long haul?” DI Smyth asked.

“You never know,” Smith said. “This might be the all new, improved Smith you’re looking at. Anyway, if the empathy route doesn’t get results, they can rattle her a bit. Ask her about her ex-boyfriend – the one who used her as a punchbag. They might be able to wind her up to the extent that she won’t be able to keep quiet about him. She’s a woman – I don’t know many women who can manage to keep their mouths shut for long.”
“That’s more like the Smith I know,” DI Smyth said. “I was getting quite concerned for a moment there. I’ll put forward your suggestions. In the meantime, I’m sure there’s something you can occupy your time with.”

Smith finished his coffee, and an idea came to him. It was a plan that would enable him to kill two birds with one stone.

“I want to go and see Dr Vennell.”
“Your shrink friend?” DI Smyth said.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that. I think she might be able to help me understand what’s going on inside the heads of the members of this Creed. It’s looking like they’ve been brainwashed by a very clever manipulator, and it might be beneficial to know a bit more about how she’s doing it.”
“Do you really think she can help us?”
“The woman has persuaded these people to kill, boss,” Smith said. “They’ve followed her instructions without a thought about the consequences. I don’t care how badly someone has been hurt, it must take a lot of mental prowess to make a person kill another human being. Dr Vennell might be able to shed some light on how she does it. They slipped up badly with the prints on Brian Colton’s finger and I’ve got a feeling they’re going to slip up again. All we need is to get one of them to talk, and we’ll nail this psychopathic Creed bitch.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

“I’m deeply disappointed by the recent developments.”
The woman’s eyes burned with a fire that none of her acolytes had seen before, and every man and woman was transfixed by them.

“I created this Creed to help you, but it appears that there are those of you who refuse to be helped. Before we continue today is there anyone else who has had a change of heart? Because if you are to be healed, that heart needs to be devoted to the Creed. Well?”

A minute of silence followed.

“Very well. The man you see here doesn’t deserve a place on the earth we’re striving to create.”

The figure on the floor in front of her had already suffered a number of injuries. Both wrists had been broken – his left eye was swollen shut and if it wasn’t for the rag in his mouth the people gathered would be able to see that most of his teeth had been shattered.

“I call upon you to be brave. This thing you see before you is no more worthy of its place on this earth than a parasite in the blood of a child. I want you to visualise your darkest hours when you look down upon him. I want you to imagine he was there next to you, applauding what was being done to you.”

A woman stepped forward and kicked the man hard in the temple. He teetered to the side but remained on his knees. Another woman followed with a series of blows to the top of his head. The gagged man groaned just before a tall man swung a hammer and broke every bone in his nose. He fell backwards now.

“Good. That’s good. This is how you will heal.”

More of them approached. The kicks and punches were furious. The room was alive with energy and the air was thick with the funk of primal sweat. The final blow was inflicted a good three minutes after the man’s heart had beaten its last beat.

“Your strength grows each time you take back the part of your lives that was stolen from you. We have a long road ahead of us, but I will help you every step of the way. Finger.”

* * *

“Is there anything you need?” Whitton asked.

The interview with Theresa Nolan had begun a couple of minutes ago. The only voice the recording device had picked up so far was Whitton’s when she’d gone through the formalities for the record.

“Do you require medical attention?” she said. “Perhaps a glass of water?”

Theresa didn’t even make eye contact. Her gaze was fixed on the table in front of her.

“Do you understand why you were arrested?” DC King tried.

Nothing. This was going to be a frustrating interview.

“Theresa,” Whitton said. “I think I know what this is all about, but you might have to help me fill in a few gaps if you can. Can you do that? OK, you were in an abusive relationship, weren’t you? The first thing I want you to know is you’re not alone. And not once was anything that happened to you your fault. I know you probably think I’m saying this to try to get you to slip up, but I’m not. We’re on your side, and you can trust us. Is it OK if we call you Theresa, or would you prefer Mrs Nolan?”

Whitton knew she wasn’t married but she thought it was worth a try.

It didn’t work. Theresa remained silent.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” DC King said. “It makes no difference how much time has passed. You can still press charges if you choose to.”
“Do you want to do that?” Whitton said. “We can set the ball in motion right now. You can make the man who hurt you pay for what he did.”

This didn’t work either.

“We have a daughter who refuses to talk,” Whitton said out of the blue. “Well, she’s not technically our daughter – we’re in the process of adopting her, but she’s been living with us for a while. She experienced something horrific. Her mother was murdered by someone she once trusted. She didn’t see it coming. Perhaps you could give me a few tips on how to persuade the little girl to speak to us. She’s eight-years-old. Maybe you could help me to understand why she won’t talk.”

Whitton would listen to the interview later and cringe when she heard this part. She hadn’t intended to come across as patronising, but that’s what she would later think of it.

She decided that a change of tack was required.

“Theresa, I don’t know who you’re protecting, but are they worth ruining your life for? We don’t actually need you to tell us anything – the evidence against you speaks for itself.”
“We believe that there were mitigating circumstances involved,” DC King said. “And that will work in your favour.”
“But only if you talk to us,” Whitton added. “Your silence really isn’t doing you any favours.”

Theresa wasn’t falling for it. Whitton sensed they were fighting a losing battle.

She tried another approach, and it was the only one left.

“On Saturday, you gathered with the other members of your Creed, and you killed Brian Colton. You cut off his finger and stuffed it in his mouth. We know you did that – the evidence doesn’t lie, but the evidence rarely tells us why. Perhaps you can help us with that.”

Nothing.

“She forced you to do it, didn’t she?” Whitton said. “The woman who chose you and asked you to join the Creed. The one with the soulless eyes. I can see life in your eyes, but there’s every chance that the woman who thinks she’s in control of you will change that. There’s still a chance for you, Theresa but you need to talk to us. I know it’s hard – I know she threatened you, but if you help us we can stop her and she won’t be able to hurt you.”

Theresa looked up now. Her eyes met Whitton’s and she smiled. Whitton wasn’t expecting it. The smile grew wider and when she folded her arms Whitton knew they weren’t going to make any progress with Theresa Nolan today. She stated the time for the record and turned off the recording device.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Smith had to borrow Whitton’s car to drive to Dr Vennell’s practice. He parked it in the short stay car park around the corner and set off on foot. He smoked a cigarette while he walked. The streets were busy, and Smith studied the people going about their business. A strange thought occurred to him – he wondered if any of these people turned into monsters behind closed doors. Did some of these ordinary men and women like to use their fists when the lights went out? Or were some of them the victims of the pent-up rage? It was impossible to tell. He pushed the thought aside – it was pointless to dwell on it.

Dr Vennell was waiting for him in the reception area of the practice. Smith expected her to come forward and hug him like she usually did, but the embrace didn’t come. Instead, she asked him to follow her to her office. He sensed that this was going to be an unpleasant couple of hours.

“Take a seat,” she said and closed the door.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up about the adoption agency,” Smith said.

“What’s done is done. How are you?”
“I’m just fucking great,” Smith said. “I’m fighting an uphill battle with a jobsworth prick who has the power to take away a little girl who really needs us, and I’ve got a psycho bitch to catch – a psycho bitch who has the ability to make people kill.”
“Just another day in the life of Jason Smith then.”
Smith smiled. Things were back to normal with the pretty psychologist.

“Tell me about the adoption agency,” Dr Vennell said. “And then I’d very much like to hear about your psycho bitch.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Smith said. “The idiot adoption agent isn’t happy with the environment Fran will be living in if she’s adopted by me and Erica. He’s mentioned Lucy’s pregnancy more than once, and it’s as if he thinks it’s our fault.”
“Teenage pregnancies are rarely the product of the girl’s home life,” Dr Vennell said. “And I can’t see how it’s relevant to the decision to adopt an eight-year-old girl. Fran is eight, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Smith confirmed. “Walter Plover – that’s the officious moron, insists on hearing what Fran thinks about the adoption.”
“He’s following guidelines. Fran’s situation is an unusual one. Her mother was murdered, and that is bound to leave deep emotional scars. It’s not uncommon for an adoption agency to get the opinion of a psychologist in cases like this.”
“Can you help me?” Smith said.

“I think so. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
     Dr Vennell got up and turned on the coffee machine.

“Any particular preference?”
“Surprise me,” Smith said.

Dr Vennell inserted two capsules and waited for the machine to do its thing. It didn’t take long. She returned to the desk with two steaming cups of black coffee.

“It’s sacrilege to add milk to this.”
Smith took a sip and nodded. “Very good.”

“There is no guarantee that Fran will open up to me,” Dr Vennell said.

“I think she will,” Smith said. “You have a knack for making people feel comfortable. I know Fran, and I know she’ll like you. Do me and Erica have to be there when you speak to her?”
“That’s not going to happen. Fran will be more likely to open up without you present. Tell me some more about her.”

“She’s an exceptional little girl. She and Laura have been friends for ages and Laura isn’t easy to be friends with.”
“She takes after her father.”
Smith didn’t comment on this.

“Fran has moments where she surprises me,” he said. “Her ability to feel empathy is astonishing for someone her age. I think she’s going to grow into something special, but I also think that for that to happen she needs a home environment where she’s understood.”
“And that would be your home environment?”
“I think we can help her.”
“I think so too,” Dr Vennell agreed. “You already have a daughter whose adoption was the product of a murder and, teenage pregnancy aside she seems to be thriving with you.”
“Lucy is another special young woman,” Smith said. “And she’s also been instrumental in Fran’s recuperation after her mother was killed. She helped Laura after her ordeal in Australia too, and in turn Laura is helping Fran. Basically, I have a family of fucked-up daughters who know what it’s like to feel pain.”
Dr Vennell laughed. “You’re pretty fucked-up yourself, Jason. And that is something I won’t comment on when I submit my report to the adoption agency.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to do this,” Smith said.

“I’m not doing it for nothing,” Dr Vennell said. “This isn’t going to come cheap.”
“I’ll pay whatever fee you normally charge,” Smith said.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Smith didn’t know how to interpret this, but he sensed that this was going to cost him a lot more than money.

His phone started to ring, and the ringtone told him it was a call he needed to answer.

“I have to take this,” he said.

“By all means,” Dr Vennell said. “I’ve got all afternoon.”

Smith left the room and answered the phone. It was DI Smyth.

“Are you still with the shr… psychologist?”

“We were just discussing the woman and the Creed,” Smith lied.

“We’ve got another body. A man was found by the waste disposal site in Hazel Court. He’s been beaten to a pulp and his index finger has been removed and placed inside his mouth.”

“Do we have an ID?”
“Not yet,” DI Smyth said. “But if he’s anything like the others he’ll have probably been arrested somewhere down the line.”

Something occurred to Smith.

“They were all put out with the trash, boss.”
“You’ve lost me there,” DI Smyth said.

“All the victims were found in the rubbish. The places they were dumped were chosen carefully.”
“You’re right,” DI Smyth said. “But I can’t see how that’s going to help us.”
“It’s not,” Smith said. “I was just thinking out loud. I’m still going to be a while with Dr Vennell.”
“I just wanted to keep you up to date.”
“I appreciate it,” Smith said. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m finished here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

“Someone really did not like this bloke,” DC Moore stated the obvious.

The man found at the back of the waste disposal unit in Hazel Court was probably only going to be identified by his fingerprints. He had no remaining facial features. What was once a face was now a bloody pulp of flesh, bone and cartilage. His nose had been destroyed, and both eyes had been slammed deep into their sockets. His cheekbones were exposed, and his chin was bent at an unnatural angle. Even dental records would be useless for identification purposes – every one of his teeth had been shattered. Later, at the post-mortem Dr Kenny Bean would document no fewer than sixty-two individual injuries. It was a new record, albeit an unenviable one.

“I feel sorry for the poor bastard who has to scrape what’s left of him up,” Bridge said.

“These people are ruthless,” DC Moore said. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“I need some fresh air,” Bridge said.

The stench from the refuse site wasn’t pleasant. Bridge and DC Moore walked away from the dead man and made their way towards the site office. Billie Jones walked past them. She smiled at Bridge, but he didn’t even acknowledge her.

They were halfway to the office when Bridge spotted something.

He pointed at the CCTV camera. “This looks promising.”
“Let’s hope that thing is working,” DC Moore said.

“We’ll soon find out.”
“I can’t imagine why someone would want to work at a place like this,” DC Moore said and sniffed the air. “Handling domestic waste all day is not my idea of a dream job.”
“Someone has to do it,” Bridge said.

It didn’t take them long to find out that the CCTV camera closest to where the body had been found was fully operational. One of the people working in the offices confirmed that it was running twenty-four-seven. He introduced himself as Frank and he offered to show them the footage.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Bridge and DC Moore sat down behind a desk opposite him.

“What made you take a job at a waste disposal plant?” DC Moore asked him.

“It’s a dirty job,” Frank said. “But someone’s got to do it. You get used to the stink after a while. What time are you interested in?”
“The bloke who found the body said it wasn’t there when he was out the back a few hours ago,” Bridge said. “So it must have been dumped very recently. If you could go back three hours that ought to be enough.”

Frank opened up a laptop and tapped the keypad.

“The server is pretty slow today,” he said. “It happens sometimes.”

“What program are you using?” DC Moore said.

“Hi-Look. I keep telling the manager that it’s outdated. Here we go. Can I leave you to it?”
“No problem,” Bridge said.

Frank stood up. “Do you know how long you’re going to be?”
“As soon as we’ve checked the footage, we’ll let you know.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Frank said. “I meant with that… Out there.”
He pointed out of the window.

“He’ll be taken away as soon as the Forensics team has finished,” DC Moore told him. “Unfortunately, that can take time.”

He started the CCTV footage. The time at the bottom of the screen was 10:55. Nothing happened for the first ten minutes.

“Can you speed it up a bit?” Bridge said.

DC Moore tapped the keypad, so the footage was now running at three times normal speed.

At 11:22 a figure appeared in the bottom left-hand corner. DC Moore set the speed to normal and increased it again when he realised it was the man who was later to make a discovery he would never forget. Nothing else happened until 12:30. Two people came into view. When they got closer to the camera it was clear it was a man and a woman. They were dragging something behind them.

“He was carried in a couple of bin bags,” DC Moore said. “In broad daylight.”
“This is a waste disposal unit,” Bridge reminded him. “Bin bags aren’t going to arouse any suspicion in a place like this.”

“They’re emptying him out like he’s a piece of garbage,” DC Moore carried on narrating the footage.

“I think that’s the point. Pause it there.”
     Both of the temporary garbage disposal operatives were standing facing the camera. It was definitely a man and a woman, and their faces were quite clear.

“Perhaps they weren’t aware of the camera,” DC Moore said.
“Perhaps,” Bridge said. “I wonder why they have CCTV here anyway. Go and see if you can find our friend Frank. I want a copy of this footage.”
     DC Moore left the office. Bridge focused hard on the faces frozen in time on the screen of the laptop. The man looked to be in his twenties and the woman was at least a decade older. Bridge didn’t think he’d seen the woman before, but the man looked familiar. The woman had an intense stare. She looked like she meant business. The man looked sad. There was a lot of sorrow in his eyes and in the downturn of his mouth. Bridge thought he probably hadn’t smiled in a very long time. He still couldn’t remember where he'd seen him before but there was something in his face that definitely rang a bell.

DC Moore returned with Frank in tow.

“I’ve explained what we need,” he told Bridge.

“I’ve got a few spare flash drives,” Frank said. “I’ll save the footage on one for you.”

He opened a drawer and took out a blank USB.

“Why do you have cameras?” Bridge asked him.

“You’d be surprised what some people throw away,” Frank said.

He inserted the USB into the laptop and saved the footage.

“We’ve had problems with break-ins. We’re not too concerned about the theft itself – I mean, the stuff is here to be disposed of anyway, but sometimes they cause damage when they break in. All done.”
He removed the USB and handed it to Bridge.

“Thank you,” Bridge said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“Who did that to him?” Frank said. “The man out there I mean. Who would do such a thing?”
Bridge tapped the USB. “Hopefully this will help us find out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

“Problems?” Dr Vennell asked when Smith returned to her office.

“Nothing that can’t be handled by someone else,” Smith said and sat back down.

“Tell me about your psycho bitch.”
“I suppose that’s not strictly a Psychology term, is it?” Smith said. “What do you know about cults?”
“A bit.”

“We’ve had a string of murders of men who have a history of violence against women,” Smith said. “And we’ve since found out that the murders were carried out by members of a group who follow something they call the Creed.”

“Is this a religious creed?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Smith said. “It’s run by a woman who seems to hold absolute power over her people. They were chosen carefully – all of them have suffered abuse at the hands of someone close to them, and they’ve been brainwashed into believing they need to kill abusers to take back control of their lives.”
“Are all the people who follow the Creed women?”
“No,” Smith said. “Half of them are men. Men we believe have been physically abused by someone close to them.”
“Interesting.”
“In what way?”
“In the way that makes me wonder how she does it. A woman empowering other women is understandable. There’s solidarity there, and that makes it much easier to manipulate a vulnerable mind, but with men involved it’s much more complicated. I suspect she’s trained hard to do what she does. Tell me some more.”
“Hold on,” Smith said. “I’m not following you. Are you telling me we’re dealing with someone whose been practicing this?”

“Mental manipulation is not actually difficult. In fact, we all do it, if only on a subconscious level.”
“I don’t,” Smith argued.

Dr Vennell laughed. “You do it for a living, Jason. Every time you step into that interview room, you’re already doing it in your head. You’re figuring out the best way to get your suspect to tell you what you need to hear.”
“Fair enough.”
“The woman in charge of the Creed is a rarity,” Dr Vennell said. “The fact that she can brainwash men and women is a testament to how advanced she is in the art of mental manipulation.”

“How does she do it?” Smith asked.

“She’s not performing some kind of magic trick,” Dr Vennell said. “In a way, what she’s doing is a form of mass hypnosis. But not everyone is susceptible to it.”
“She’s selected these people carefully. She’s using their vulnerability to manipulate and brainwash them.”
“That’s a simplistic way of putting it.”
“I’m not a psychologist,” Smith said.

“You’re not far off though. Going back to hypnotism – the hypnotists who turn it into entertainment don’t simply select a victim at random, they pick their subjects carefully. They’re adept at reading people and they know who they’re going to choose beforehand, based on a number of important factors. Your Creed woman does the same, and in her case the subjects are already predisposed to manipulation.”

“The woman we spoke to last night mentioned something about a cult of personality,” Smith said.

“It’s definitely something to consider,” Dr Vennell said.

“I’ve read about people like that. Adolf Hitler, Mussolini.”
“To name but a few. People with extraordinary charisma and an incredible ability to draw their followers in. Gandhi was another one, as were Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. If you go back through history you’ll find many more and you’ll see a common denominator in all of them.”
“They were all men,” Smith said.

“Not all,” Dr Vennell said. “But mostly, yes. It is extremely unusual for a woman to be able to create the sort of mass hysteria these figures were responsible for, and I believe the reason for that is quite simple.”
“They have no inclination to do so?” Smith guessed.

“You have a perceptive mind, Jason. Why do you even need my help when you seem to know all the answers?”
“I reckon I need a bit of prompting every now and then. Where do we even start looking for someone like this?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one,” Dr Vennell said. “Where have you looked so far?”
“In the usual places I suppose.”
“There you go then. You won’t find this woman in those places.”

“Surely a woman like this would be easy to spot,” Smith said.

“On the contrary,” Dr Vennell said. “I could be wrong, but I believe when you do discover her identity, you’ll be surprised by how mind-numbingly normal she is.”

“I’m starting to wonder if we ever will learn her identity.”
“You will. But don’t expect her to be wearing a mask and a cape with Mentalist written on it. She will be an ordinary member of society.”

“How do we get her acolytes to crack?” Smith asked.

“That depends on how deeply they’ve fallen under her spell.”
“And her threatening them isn’t helping,” Smith said. “She’s proven to them that she’s ruthless and they know what will happen to them if they betray the Creed.”
“I don’t know how else I can help you.”
“What about hypnotism?” Smith said. “Would that work? We’ve got one of her disciples in custody and she’s sticking to the vow of silence she pledged to. Do you think we can get her to talk under hypnosis?”
“It’s possible,” Dr Vennell said. “But is it ethical or even legal? I very much doubt that anything she tells you would be admissible as evidence.”
“I’d have to find out about that. I’ll let you get on with your day.”

He got to his feet.

“Wait,” Dr Vennell said. “We haven’t discussed my fee.”
“What did you have in mind?” Smith said.

“Dinner. Just you and me. We can discuss your psycho bitch in more detail if you like.”
“Can I get back to you on that?”

“The fee goes up the longer you take to make up your mind.”

“Is that common practice?” Smith said.

“I’m making an exception for a special case.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not.”
     Smith knew he should stop right there. They were flirting – that was obvious, and he didn’t like the direction that things were heading in.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Dr Vennell stood up and walked around the desk. This time she did embrace him. She kissed him on the cheek.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she whispered in his ear.

Smith looked her in the eye for a second, turned around and left the office.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“Theresa Nolan isn’t playing ball,” Whitton told Smith in the canteen when he got back to the station.

“I didn’t think she would break her vow of silence that easily,” he said.

He decided not to mention anything about the discussion with Fiona Vennell. The parting embrace was still fresh in his head, and he was sure he could still smell her on his clothes.

“Do you think it’s worth me having a crack at her?” he asked.

“You can try,” Whitton said. “But she’s a cool customer. We tried everything to get her to talk but I think she’s been well and truly brainwashed.”
“I want to ask the DI about bringing in a hypnotist. I think she’s already been mentally manipulated by the woman in charge of the Creed, and it’s possible we might be able to reverse that with the help of someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“I don’t think DI Smyth will go for it,” Whitton said. “And hypnotism is a bit of a grey area in terms of the law.”
“You know me,” Smith said. “I don’t give a shit about that. I don’t need anything we get out of her to hold up in court – I want to see if she can give us any idea who the woman behind this Creed is. We already have enough to charge her, but I want the woman pulling the strings. More people are going to die, and we have to try something.”

“How did it go with the supermodel head shrinker?” Whitton said.

“Pretty well. She’s agreed to see Fran, and I asked her what she thought about the Creed while I was there. I borrowed your car, by the way.”
“I hope you didn’t smoke in it.”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“What did Dr Vennell have to say about the Creed?”
“She thinks the woman calling the shots is an extremely gifted mental manipulator.”
“We already know that,” Whitton said. “How else is she getting people to commit murder?”
“And that’s why we need to bring in a hypnotist. We need to play the same game she’s playing.”
“I can tell you now that the boss won’t go for it.”
“It’s worth a try.”

“The bloke found by the waste disposal site was a nasty one,” Whitton said.

“So I believe. Do we know who he is yet?”
“Webber has promised to make his prints a priority, but I’ll bet you anything that he’ll be in the system. We’ll soon find out.”

“All of the victims were dumped with the rubbish,” Smith said. “They were all left in places where garbage gets disposed of and I think it’s significant.”
“It has to be,” Whitton agreed. “But when you think about it, it makes sense. They’re all known to use violence against people weaker than themselves, so they’re killed and thrown amongst the other trash. How does it help us though?”
“I was wondering if it might be worth checking out other waste dumping sites. There might be victims out there we haven’t found yet.”
“Do you know how long that would take?” Whitton said. “It’s just not viable.”
“I suppose you’re right. This case is starting to get under my skin.”
     Bridge and DC Moore came into the canteen. Bridge looked extremely smug. He sat down next to Smith.

“What’s wrong with you?” Smith asked. “Have you and Billie kissed and made up?”
“Not bloody likely,” Bridge said. “That part of my life is over, and I’m ready to move on to the next lucky woman.”
“God help her,” Whitton commented.

“What’s with the disturbing contented grin then?” Smith said.

“We got a hit from the CCTV camera at the refuse place,” Bridge said. “A man and woman were caught on camera dumping the body. Both of their faces were extremely clear, and I know who the man is.”
“Have we come across him somewhere in the investigation?” Whitton said.

“Not as far as I’m aware. I know him from the pub I like to go to. His name is Dave and he’s been a local at the King’s Arms for as long as I can remember. Dismal Dave the landlord calls him.”
“Dismal Dave?” Smith repeated.

“I’ve never seen him smile once since he’s been frequenting the King’s Arms and now I think I know why. I think he’s been in an abusive relationship some time in his life, and I also think he’s a member of the Creed.”

* * *

Dismal Dave turned out to be a man by the name of David Wells. A quick check confirmed that he was known to the police. In 2016 he was hospitalized after the man he was living with beat him up in the toilet of a nightclub. The boyfriend was arrested but David refused to take things further and the charges were dropped. A year later history repeated itself and once more he found himself in hospital. This time he was persuaded to press charges, and his partner was apprehended and charged with GBH. The man who’d beaten him up was released on bail and he failed to appear for his court date. He was never found, and according to the records it looked like the police didn’t try very hard to locate him.

“He’s an ideal candidate for the Creed,” Smith said to DI Smyth. “The legal system lets him down and the woman in charge promises him she can help make things right. How did the boyfriend manage to stay hidden?”
“You know the score,” DI Smyth said. “Resources in the police have shrunk to next to nothing over the past few years. We simply don’t have the manpower to follow up on every scumbag who skips bail. It’s just the way it is.”
“It stinks,” Smith said. “And it opens the door wide open for psycho bitches like the Creed woman.”

“We’ve got an address for Mr Wells,” DI Smyth said. “We’ll pick him up and see what he has to say for himself.”
“I know exactly what he’s going to say for himself, boss,” Smith said. “Absolutely fuck all. He’ll stick to his vow of silence. I want to bring in a hypnotist.”
“Where on earth did that come from?”
“These people have proven that they’re open to hypnosis,” Smith said. “Fundamentally, at least and I reckon we can get them to talk to us with the help of a trained hypnotist.”

DI Smyth opened his mouth to say something, but Smith got in first.

“I know it’s controversial. And I also know that anything said under hypnosis can’t be considered as evidence, but that doesn’t matter. We’ve got Theresa Nolan’s prints on the finger, and we’ve got CCTV of Dismal Dave dumping the body at the waste disposal place, so we’ve got enough to charge both of them. I want to know who the woman pulling the strings is, and I think this is how we’ll get her acolytes to spill the beans.”
“We’re not going to resort to hypnotism,” DI Smyth said. “This is not some dodgy detective drama series – this is real life, and I won’t authorise something like this. It is not up for debate.”
     Smith had half-expected this reaction. He needed to try another approach.

“Dr Vennell pointed out something interesting earlier.”
“Go on,” DI Smyth said.

“She suggested that everyone was capable of mental manipulation,” Smith said. “And she also believes that we all do it, even if only on a subconscious level. I told her that I didn’t, and she pointed out that I actually do it for a living. She’s right – every time we interview a scumbag, we’re mentally manipulating them. We’re using similar techniques to try and get them to crack. It’s not much different to hypnotism.”
“Nice try,” DI Smyth said. “But the answer is still no.”

“You’re making a mistake, boss.”
“Boss is the operative word, and don’t you forget it.”

“We’re not dealing with conventional criminals here,” Smith said.

He wasn’t giving up.

“We need to do something drastic if we’re going to find out who the woman calling the shots is.”

“This topic of conversation is closed,” DI Smyth said. “David Wells will be brought in, and you’ll have the opportunity to interview the man, but we’ll have no more talk of hypnotism.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Smith couldn’t let it lie. He was determined to find out everything he could about the ancient art of hypnotism. David Wells had been arrested and brought in for questioning, but so far, all the conversations with the man had been one-sided. He was simply refusing to talk, and there was nothing they could do to persuade him to change his mind.

Smith found a lot of information about hypnotism on the Internet and the more he researched the subject the more convinced he became that it was the only way they were going to get the man and woman in custody to open their mouths.

He even went so far as to see if there was anything on the net that could teach him a few of the basics, but he soon discovered that hypnotism wasn’t something you could learn after watching a few YouTube videos. There was a lot more to it than Smith originally thought.

He was surprised to find so many so-called hypnotists advertising their talents on the Internet. In York alone there were no fewer than sixteen. The majority of these advertised their services for Stag parties, Hen dos and the like and Smith decided these were probably not what he was looking for. A few of the others were ridiculously expensive and in the end he managed to whittle down the list to two people. He called the number for the woman and was informed that the number did not exist.

So that left Porter Klaus, and when Smith dialled the number, he was relieved when the dial tone sounded on the other end of the line.

“Klaus.” The man had an unusually deep voice.

Smith introduced himself and explained the nature of the call. Porter Klaus listened to what he had to say without interruption and agreed to meet that evening. He told Smith he was rather intrigued and when they ended the call Smith was confident that something would come of the meeting with the hypnotist.

He decided to keep the appointment to himself for the time being. He knew that DI Smyth would be against the idea, but Smith was getting desperate. He closed down his laptop and made his way outside to smoke a cigarette. Once again DCI Chalmers had had the same idea.

“Boss,” Smith said to him. “Lovely day.”
“That it is,” Chalmers agreed. “Enjoy it while it lasts and don’t let that sun fool you for a second. Yorkshire likes to lull you into a false sense of security. Before you know it the skies will darken and the central heating bill will shoot through the roof.”
“Spoken like a true Yorkshireman.”
Smith lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“You can breathe out now,” Chalmers said. “Looks like you needed that.”
“That’s an understatement, boss,” Smith said. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the current investigation.”
“Enough,” Chalmers said. “Where are we at with that?”
“Not far enough for my liking.”
“You always say that. Talk to me.”
“We’ve got two suspects in custody,” Smith said. “A woman who left her prints on the severed finger that was found in the mouth of a dead man. And there’s a bloke who was caught on camera dumping another body.”
“Sounds like there’s enough there to nail them.”
“There is,” Smith confirmed. “But neither of them is talking. They’re both disciples of something called the Creed and they’ve taken a vow of silence.”
“Are we talking about some kind of cult?”
“Something similar,” Smith said. “The members have all suffered abuse in the past and the woman who thinks she can play God has brainwashed them into believing they need to kill past abusers to obtain some kind of peace.”
“What utter bollocks,” Chalmers said. “And these disciples have fallen for it?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. But I don’t think it’s their fault. We’re talking mass hypnosis here. This woman is an exceptionally gifted mental manipulator. She chooses her acolytes carefully – they’re all victims of physical violence, and they’re easy to mould into what the woman wants them to be. The bodies are piling up, and they’re not going to stop piling up unless this woman is caught.”
     Chalmers stubbed out his cigarette.

“Bugger it,” he said and lit another. “How come you know all about this Creed? You said your suspects are all keeping their gobs shut.”
“An ex-member contacted me,” Smith said. “She told me all about it. She was present when one of the men was killed.”
“Speak to her again. You clearly didn’t get enough info out of her.”
“That might be a problem. The number she gave me is the only means of contacting her and every time I call it, it goes straight to voicemail. She’s not going to tell me anything else. I don’t know where she lives, and I should have been more thorough with her.”
“You bloody idiot. She should have been hauled in the moment you heard about her involvement in the murder.”
“She wasn’t actually involved. She was just a bystander.”
“That makes her an accomplice to murder in my book. She has a duty as a citizen of this beautiful city to report it. You’re a bloody idiot.”
     Smith knew that Chalmers was right, but he really didn’t think the woman called Sue would give them anything else anyway. He told the DCI as much.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Chalmers said. “What’s Oliver’s opinion on the matter?”
“The DI didn’t think there was much we could do about it,” Smith said. “I told him the woman I spoke to would most likely keep her mouth shut and he agreed. These people are something I’ve never come across before and I’m starting to wonder if we need to resort to drastic measures.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of this. I’ve had the pleasure of your drastic measures before. What did you have in mind this time?”
“I’d rather not say,” Smith said.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Isn’t it about time you left for the day – it’s gone five.”
“I was just about to do just that,” Chalmers said. “But Mrs Chalmers takes exception to me smoking in the Beemer.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Back to her usual self,” Chalmers said. “God help us all.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Chalmers took a final drag from his cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray.

“I mean every word of it. Time to head home.”
     He turned to walk away and stopped after a few steps.

He turned back around. “What are your plans for next weekend?”
“I have no idea,” Smith told him. “It depends on the developments in the investigation. What did you have in mind?”
“It’s Mrs Chalmers’ sixtieth. She’s organised a party for herself and the people on the guest list aren’t people I’m really looking forward to spending an evening with. Her sister, brother-in-law and some former work colleagues are coming, and trying to have a conversation with any of them is like talking to a brick. It would be nice to have some people there I actually enjoy the company of.”
“I didn’t know you cared so much.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Chalmers said. “Give it some thought. It’s at the Green Man on Hull Road, Saturday at seven.”
“If we can make it,” Smith said. “We’ll be there.”
“Good man,” Chalmers said. “There’ll be a few free drinks in it for you.”
“Thanks for the invite.”
“Good luck with your Creed.”
With that, Chalmers turned and headed for his car.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Smith wasn’t sure what to expect when he rang the bell at Porter Klaus’s house but the man who opened the door certainly wasn’t what he imagined him to be. He was a big man – Smith wasn’t short, but he had to crane his neck to look into the hypnotist’s eyes. He had a friendly face and Smith wondered if that was important considering what he did. He looked to be in his fifties but the blond hair on his head was thick without any hint of grey.

“You must be Detective Sergeant Smith,” he said in his deep voice.

“A psychic as well as a hypnotist,” Smith said.

“Not even close. I very rarely get visitors. In fact you’re the first in a very long time. Come in, come in. I’ll make us some coffee. Or would you prefer something stronger? I’ve got beer or beer.”
“Beer sounds great.”

He followed the giant of a man through the house and Porter told him to make himself comfortable in the living room. Smith sat down on one of the single armchairs and took in the room.

He got the impression that Porter Klaus lived alone. The living room was spotless and there were none of the telltale signs that suggested any children lived there. There were no DVD cases lying around and no sign of any electronic devices. The walls were bare, with the exception of a single picture frame. Smith got up to take a closer look at it and he saw it was a certificate from a university in America.

“Don’t let that fool you.”
Klaus had come into the room. He placed a couple of pint glasses of beer on the coffee table.

“You have a PhD in Psychology from Brown University,” Smith read from the certificate.

He also noticed that the name on it wasn’t Porter Klaus’s.

“As well as a few other things,” Porter said.

“That’s impressive,” Smith said. “Do you practice here in the city?”
“I don’t practice anywhere.”
“You look a bit young to be retired.”
“I’m fifty-three,” Porter said. “I was forced into early retirement.”
“I won’t ask why.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll tell you why anyway. Let’s just say I had a difference of opinion with some powerful people about the treatment of a particularly complex patient. I went against their recommendations, and it ended badly. Very badly indeed. But you’re not here to talk about that.”
He picked up one of the beers and handed it to Smith. The other he raised in the air and took a long drink.

“Cheers. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Smith had rehearsed what he was going to tell him on the drive over. He decided he would give him the bare minimum and tell him more when he’d gauged what sort of person he was. He was usually a pretty decent judge of character, and he’d got a positive impression of the man from the moment they met.

“I don’t know if you’ve read about the recent murders,” Smith said.

“I’ve seen snippets on the news,” Porter said.

“We’re a bit stuck,” Smith admitted. “We believe the people who carried out the murders are members of a secret cult who follow something called the Creed, and we also have reason to believe these men and women have all been brainwashed into believing what the leader of this cult tells them.”
“It’s not uncommon with cults.”

“We also believe that the members of the Creed have been victims of abuse in the past. They’ve suffered at the hands of people close to them, and the woman playing God is able to manipulate them by exploiting this. She’s able to brainwash them into believing the people they’re killing deserve it. She makes them believe the process will heal them.”

“Do you think this God syndrome woman has also suffered abuse?”

“We don’t know. A friend of mine, who also happens to be a psychologist suggested we could be dealing with mass hypnosis. Brainwashing on a large scale, and I came up with the idea of bringing in a hypnotist to see if we could get them to speak. I forgot to mention that part of the Creed is taking a vow of silence.”
“And you believe I may be able to get them to break this vow of silence using hypnosis?”
“That was the plan,” Smith said.

“Interesting,” Porter said.

He drained half a pint of beer in one go and urged Smith to do the same. It took the Australian detective slightly longer to finish his beer.

“I’ll get us a refill.”
Smith remembered that he had to drive home, and he told Porter as much.

“You can always ring for a taxi,” the hypnotist said. “You came here for my help, so I suggest you humour me.”

Smith didn’t know how to react to this. He was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable, and he wondered if this had been such a good idea after all. The framed PhD was bothering him. The name on it was Dieter Bergman, so why did Porter Klaus display it on his wall, and why did he claim it as his own. He didn’t get the chance to dwell on it.

“Drink up.”
The voice took Smith by surprise. It was Porter Klaus’s deep baritone, but it didn’t sound like it came from the man himself. It was inside Smith’s head and if he didn’t know any better, he would think he was in the process of being hypnotised.

The glass of beer was placed in front of him and Smith obliged by taking a small sip.

“What do you want from me?” Porter said.

He sat down opposite Smith.

“I’m not really sure,” Smith said. “Do you believe it’s possible for a person to become permanently hypnotised? What I mean is – could it be possible for someone to brainwash them to such an extent that the trance can only be broken when the hypnotist decides it?”

“Before we continue,” Porter said. “Let me educate you a little about hypnosis. It’s nothing new. In fact, the very term hypnosis is derived from the Greek word hypnotikos, which roughly translated means inclined to sleep, or putting to sleep. In a medical capacity there are references to hypnotism going back centuries. Physicians practiced it long before it became a form of entertainment. There are many documented cases of successful outcomes where a patient was treated under hypnosis.”

“How does it work?” Smith asked.

“How long have you got?” Porter said. “Because if it’s less than ten years, I won’t be able to do justice to your question. Hypnosis is a complicated thing. It is not a one size fits all solution and not everyone is capable of being hypnotised.”
“I see,” Smith said, even though he didn’t really.

“Do you want me to try and hypnotise you?” Porter asked.

Smith wasn’t expecting the question.

“Not really,” he said.

“I assure you that it’s completely safe. And from what I’ve managed to ascertain in the short time you’ve been here I would be very surprised if you would be open to it.”
“What do you mean?” Smith said.

“There are certain people who are just impossible to hypnotise,” Porter explained. “And I get the impression you’re one of them. Do you want to prove me wrong?”
     Smith took a long drink of his beer. He decided to take a leap of faith.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll agree to it, on one condition.”
“You’re the one who came to me for help,” Porter reminded him.

“Who is Dieter Bergman?” Smith said.

“You’re looking at him.”
“Why do you go by the name of Porter Klaus then?” Smith said. “And why were you forced to take early retirement?”
“Klaus was my father’s name,” Porter said. “And porter happens to be a drink I’m very fond of. I’ll tell you the story about my early retirement after I’ve made up my mind whether or not you are open to hypnotism. This is what I need you to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

A few miles away from where Porter Klaus was about to come face to face with a mind, the likes of which he’d never encountered before, a man and a woman were building up to an argument that would end very badly for one of them.

Paul and Rita Applegate were halfway through a meal that had so far passed in silence, but both of them could sense the tension that was brewing. With each irritating clink of a knife on a plate it was building, and Paul and Rita knew that some kind of altercation was inevitable.

It was Paul’s thirty-ninth birthday, and he’d had a terrible day at work. Paul worked at the petrol station at the Travelodge on the A64 and he hated his job. Rita hated it too for different reasons. She wasn’t impressed with the paycheck that Paul brought home, and she didn’t keep quiet about it. As much as Paul detested the hours he spent at the Travelodge, he hated coming home even more. Birthday or not, Rita had commenced with her venom as soon as he set foot inside the house.

Paul placed his knife and fork carefully on the plate and took a sip of his wine.

Rita glared at the steak he’d left uneaten. “Fifteen quid a kilogram that cost me.”

“I’m full,” Paul said, and got to his feet.

“Sit down.”

Paul was working on autopilot. He sat back down and had another drink of wine.

“Perhaps if you brought home more money,” Rita said. “You’d have the luxury of leaving half a rump steak. But you don’t, do you?”
“I’m not in the mood for this tonight,” Paul dared.

“Not in the mood? You’re never in the mood for anything, are you? I should have listened to my mother – she always said you were fucking useless.”
Paul looked at the woman he’d been married to for over a decade. The rage in her was building and he knew what was going to happen next.

He didn’t care anymore. He was tired of keeping quiet. He’d changed and the meetings he’d been attending had given him back what the woman across the table had taken away from him over the years. The pieces of him that she’d chipped away at over time had been repaired and he wasn’t going to let her do it anymore.

“I’m going out. I’m going somewhere I can enjoy what’s left of my birthday.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Rita said. “I spent all afternoon preparing this meal. You’re going to sit there until you’ve eaten every last scrap.”
Paul got to his feet. “No, I’m not. The steak was tougher than an old truck tire. And the mash tasted like dog puke. You’re a shit cook Rita Applegate – always have been.”
“Sit down.”
Paul pushed his chair under the table and started to walk towards the door. Rita was on him in an instant. A fist found the back of Paul’s head and a flash of white light exploded inside his head. He turned to face her and received a hard punch to the side of his face.

“You’re fucking useless,” Rita said.

Paul’s face was throbbing, and he realised that his heart was beating dangerously quickly in his chest. Rita shoved him backwards and he stumbled. Then she kicked him in the ribs. He managed to get to his feet with the help of the edge of the table. The steak knife caught his attention, and he found himself holding it tightly without even realising it.

Rita spotted it. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t push me,” Paul said. “Don’t you push me.”
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man. Fucking useless.”
     The first stab of the knife missed its target, but the second one didn’t. Rita gasped and raised her hand to the blade that had been thrust into her throat. Paul got there first. He yanked out the knife and a jet of blood splashed his chest. Rita tried to say something but the damage to her trachea had left her speechless for the first time in years. Paul sat back down and finished the wine in his glass. Rita fell to the floor and stopped moving.

Paul reached for his phone and dialled a number he was told only to use under extreme circumstances. He reckoned this was one of those times.

“Yes.”

The woman said nothing more.

“I need your help.”
That was all Paul told her, but it was enough.

* * *

“Before we begin,” Porter Klaus said. “I need to ask you some questions.”
Smith nodded.

“How did you sleep last night?”
“OK, I suppose.”

This was a lie. In fact, Smith had barely had more than a few hours of sleep.

“Why do you need to know how I slept?” he asked.

“Because we don’t need you falling asleep during the session,” Porter explained. “It happens sometimes.”
“I feel pretty much awake.”
“That’s good. Have you suffered any trauma in your life?” Porter asked. “Often hypnosis can trigger strong emotional reactions. We don’t want to open any doors your subconscious has kept locked for a reason.”
“I suppose I’ve had my fair share of trauma,” Smith said.

This was the understatement of the century, but Smith didn’t think any of his demons were going to be unleashed tonight.

“Do you dream?” Porter asked.

“Sometimes,” Smith said.

“Have you ever suffered from nightmares or night terrors?”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“No,” Porter said. “Some people are blessed with nothing but pleasant nocturnal visions. Others simply do not dream.”
“I’ve had my fair share of nightmares,” Smith admitted. “I was plagued with lucid dreams a while ago.”
“I see,” Porter said. “Then I don’t believe this is going to work. A subject who is capable of controlling the events in a dream is probably not the ideal subject for hypnosis. Shall we begin?”

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Smith was asked to make himself comfortable on the chair in the living room.

“Close your eyes,” Porter said. “And be conscious of the breaths you’re taking. In, out – in, out.”

Smith tried his best. Soon he could feel that his heartrate had slowed.

“Listen to my voice,” Porter said. “Nothing else. I’m going to ask you to picture a place where you feel safe. There you will be relaxed and nothing will hurt you. A beach, perhaps – where the waves lapping against the shore is the only sound. You’re alone there, but you feel completely safe. There’s a boat bobbing in the water further out. It’s a glorious day and the sunshine on your face is making you feel drowsy.”
     Smith didn’t know what was happening to him, but he was sure he wasn’t being hypnotised. His version of the beach was nothing like the scene Porter Klaus had described. The beach he was thinking of was the opposite of the peculiar hypnotist’s. In his version, the surf was rough, and dark clouds were gathering overhead. A group of surfers were fighting the waves in the distance and there were no waves lapping on this beach. The chop was fierce, and the crashing of the waves was thunderous.

“You spot something in the sea not far out,” Porter carried on. “It’s coming closer, and you see that it’s a dolphin. There are more than one of them, and they’re dancing in the waves. The sun is warmer now, and you can feel yourself drifting off with the pleasant heat of it. Nothing can hurt you here, and you’re feeling an immense sense of relaxation and well-being.”

Smith was feeling anything but. The sound of screams filled the air. There was more than one voice, and the words were difficult to make out. The dolphins were gone, and the wind had picked up. Then one of the dolphins returned. Smith’s eyes were focused on its dorsal fin, and he realised it wasn’t a dolphin anymore. A single scream was heard now.

Shark!

“Fuck.”

Smith’s eyes shot open and for a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. The expression in Porter Klaus’s eyes was one of deep concern.

“You’re perfectly safe. What happened?”

“I guess I’m one of those people who just can’t be hypnotised,” Smith said.

“So it appears. What happened?”
“Perhaps I should have mentioned that my sister disappeared from a beach when I was a teenager,” Smith said. “I was teaching her how to surf in Fremantle and I thought a shark had got her.”
“What really happened?”
“She was taken,” Smith said. “She was taken by some members of a cult. She was brainwashed when she was a little girl, and I only found out what really happened to her years later.”
“I’m so sorry,” Porter said. “Maybe the vision of the beach was a bad idea then. What became of her – your sister, I mean?”
“She was murdered by the same people who took her. It was a long time ago. Are you going to tell me about why you’re no longer a practicing psychologist?”
“I’ll refill our glasses first,” Porter said. “And I’ll tell you everything. I am so sorry about that.”
“You weren’t to know. If it makes you feel any better, I did feel a bit weird when I was listening to your voice.”
Porter didn’t comment on this. He left the room and returned with two more beers.

“Tell me some more about your sister,” he said.

“She was a great kid,” Smith said. “She was fiercely determined, and she could do anything she put her mind to. She persuaded me to teach her how to surf and we set off early one day. It was my fault she was taken.”
“How so?” Porter said.

“I let my pride get the better of me,” Smith said. “A group of kids were about to surf the breakers by the point and one of them told me I was too chicken to tackle them. I let him get to me and I left my sister alone.”
“You were a teenager.”
“I kept an eye on her when I paddled out,” Smith said. “But when I was about to make the turn before I jumped up on the board, I thought I heard someone shout shark, and the rest is a bit of a blur. When I got back to the part of the beach, I last saw my sister, she was gone.”
     Porter took a long drink from his glass and nodded to Smith’s glass to suggest he do the same.
“Do you still blame yourself?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said. “I did at the time. I really thought she was dead, and it never would have happened if I’d stayed with her, but when I found out what had really happened, I wasn’t sure if it was my fault anymore. I didn’t go near a beach again for a very long time. It actually turned into a phobia. I would freeze whenever I saw open water. Are you sure I’m not under hypnosis? I don’t normally open up like this.”
“It’s my job,” Porter said. “Or at least it used to be.”

“In a bizarre twist of fate,” Smith said. “The man responsible for showing me the truth about what became of my sister was the kid who goaded me on the beach that day. I got to spend a few minutes with her and then she was taken from me again. The man responsible for killing her haunted me for years. He’s dead now, so at least that’s something.”

“What about now?” Porter said. “Do you still suffer from thalassophobia?”
“It seemed to go away,” Smith said. “I can’t remember what happened to change things, but I can go on the beach now with no adverse effects. That’s enough about me. Tell me about Dieter Bergman.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Dieter Bergman was born in Hamburg in 1968,” Porter said. “Back then it was still West Germany, and we enjoyed all the advantages. I’ll refrain from referring to myself in the third person from now on if that’s alright with you.”
“No worries,” Smith said.

“My father was a lawyer, and my mother was a university professor. I was expected to pursue an academic path, and I chose psychology. I finished my Masters in Durham, and I was awarded a place at Brown to study for a PhD.”
“Isn’t Brown one of the Ivy League colleges?” Smith said.

“It is,” Porter confirmed. “And it lived up to all expectations. I loved every minute of the time I spent in Rhode Island. I was offered a position on the faculty at Brown but after careful consideration I declined. I didn’t want to teach – I wanted to practice, and that’s what led me back to England.”
“You don’t have much of an accent,” Smith pointed out.

“I’ve spent more than half my life away from Germany. My studies were conducted in English, and I can’t really remember the last time I conversed in my mother tongue. Drink up.”
     Smith was already feeling quite tipsy, and he wondered what beer Porter had given him. He was definitely going to have to call a taxi to take him home. He obliged and drained what was left in his glass.

“When I first came back here after my time in America,” Porter said when he’d refilled their glasses. “I wanted to make a difference. I was twenty-five and I was full of ideas. My father lent me enough money to buy into a practice in Newcastle and I enjoyed twenty happy years there. I’d always been fascinated by the concept of hypnosis in psychotherapy, and I studied it intensely. I used it successfully in treatment for a number of years.”
“What happened?” Smith said. “What led up to your forced early retirement?”

“I’m coming to that.”

Smith’s phone started to ring. The ringtone told him it was Whitton.
“Excuse me,” he said. “It’s my wife.”
     He left the room to answer the call.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“We’ve got another body,” Whitton told him. “This time it’s a woman. She was found behind a row of wheelie bins in Fulford.”
“Is it definitely connected to the others?” Smith said.

“Without a shadow of a doubt. Her left index finger was cut off and placed in her mouth.”
     Smith sobered up in an instant. All of the victims so far were men, and Smith had wondered when they’d get their first female victim.

“I’ve had a fair bit to drink,” he told Whitton. “The hypnotist insisted on it.”
“We’re not expected at the scene,” she said. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
“She was still warm,” Whitton said. “She was killed very recently. Looks like a single knife wound to the neck. I’ll let you get back to your hypnotist. How are you going to get home if you’ve had a drink?”
“I’ll call a taxi,” Smith said. “And I’ll pick up my car in the morning. Porter Klaus only lives a few minutes away from us. I’ll come straight home when I’m finished.”

He returned to the living room and sat down.

“Is everything OK?” Porter said.

“Everything’s fine. Where were we?”

“In 2016,” Porter said. “A patient was referred to me. In hindsight I shouldn’t have taken her on. I was already snowed under, and I couldn’t really afford to take on more cases, but she intrigued me. Her initial diagnosis was DID. Are you familiar with it?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Porter explained. “It’s a condition where a patient has two or more separate personalities controlling their behaviour. People suffering from DID have different personalities that can materialise at any time. These alter egos usually appear in response to situations that trigger emotional stress, and the different personalities are a kind of coping mechanism. DID patients have usually suffered extreme trauma in their lives and the alters are a way of combatting the memories of this trauma.”

Smith took a sip of beer and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after nine and he hoped this wasn’t going to take all night.

“I had some concerns about the treatment the patient was being given,” Porter said. “She was deemed unreceptive to CBT – that’s cognitive behavioural therapy and she’d been prescribed a cocktail of anti-psychotic medication, but it was clear from the onset that it wasn’t working. After a few sessions I believed that hypnotherapy would be beneficial. There is evidence from previous test cases that it’s been used successfully in the treatment of DID patients. I put my recommendations to the board and those recommendations were rejected on the grounds that the risks involved outweighed the benefits.”
“What risks are you talking about?” Smith said.

“With hypnotism there is always the danger of bringing to the surface something the brain has kept buried for a reason, and the board believed that in a patient suffering from DID the danger is even higher.”
“But you disagreed?” Smith said.
“I believed it would help. I truly believed that, not only could I help the woman work through the trauma that caused the DID in the first place, but I could also enable her to merge her separate identities into one single entity.”
“But the board still didn’t think it would work?”
“No,” Porter said. “They did not. But I went against their decision and began a course of hypnotherapy sessions anyway. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret what I did.”

He stopped there and rubbed his eyes.

“What happened?” Smith said.

“I thought it was working,” Porter said. “I thought I was making a difference. I really did. The patient had created another identity – a stronger identity than her real self, and it would materialise during times of extreme stress. The hypnosis triggered something deep, deep down inside and the stronger identity showed its face. The details of exactly what happened are still unclear, but this is what I believe happened. The tough identity came out and persuaded the weaker personality to terminate itself, destroying them both in the process.”
“She killed herself?” Smith said.

Porter nodded. “And there was little doubt about her intentions. She jumped from the top floor of a thirty-storey building. Of course, there was a full enquiry – I was ruled to be in dereliction of my duties and I was prohibited from practicing ever again. So now you know. Auf Wiedersehen, Dieter Bergman the doctor of psychology, Guten Tag, Porter Klaus the unemployed hypnotist.”
“About that,” Smith said. “We still haven’t discussed my request in detail.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

“I’d say she’s only been dead a few hours,” Grant Webber said.

The woman found next to the row of wheelie bins in Fulford had been placed on her back. She was a short woman with brown hair. Her eyes were open and the finger inside her mouth had a lot of blood on it. The wound to her neck appeared to be the only injury she’d suffered apart from the severed finger and Webber was convinced that was what had killed her.

“I’ve got uniforms busy with a door-to-door,” DI Smyth said. “It’s possible that someone saw something. What else can you tell me about her?”
He nodded to the dead woman on the ground and his eyes came to rest on the finger inside her mouth.

“Not an awful lot,” Webber said. “Single stab wound to the neck. Probably destroyed her trachea and caused her to suffocate or choke to death. It doesn’t look like the arteries were hit.”

“Have you found any ID?” DI Smyth said.

“We haven’t got round to checking,” Webber said. “Billie wanted to document the position she was left in before we moved her.”

DI Smyth returned his gaze to the severed finger. “What’s that on her finger?”

Webber crouched down. The digit had been forced deep into her throat, fingernail first like all of the others. There was something attached to the finger and when Webber pulled it out of the mouth, he saw that it was a silver ring.

“It’s a strange finger to wear a ring on,” He commented.

He held it up to the light of the spotlight that had been set up.

“SL,” he said and showed it to DI Smyth.

The letters had been engraved in italics onto the inside of the ring.

“Could be her initials,” DI Smyth speculated. “Or perhaps a boyfriend.”

“Webber opened a small evidence bag and placed the finger inside.”
     Billie Jones approached.

“I think she was brought here by more than one person,” she said. “I spoke to one of the uniforms and a woman living in the house at the end of the alley remembers seeing two people walk past a couple of hours ago. She thinks they were carrying something, but she can’t be a hundred percent certain.”
“It makes sense,” Webber said. “She’s not a big woman, but she will have been a dead weight, if you’ll pardon the pun. Do you want to give her a once over? See if you can find any ID.”

Billie bent down and checked the woman’s pockets, one by one.

“Nothing in her jacket.”
“If it’s anything like the others,” DI Smyth said. “They won’t have left anything on her person to enable us to identify her.”

Billie looked inside the pockets of her jeans next. There was nothing in the front. She carefully turned her over, slipped her fingers in one of the back pockets and pulled out a small card.

“What is it?” Webber said.

“Library card,” Billie said. “They messed up. Her name is Susan Landon.”
“SL,” DI Smyth said. “It was engraved on her ring.”

“I think we’re finished here,” Webber decided. “I’ll arrange for her to be taken away. We’ve got the finger, and we’ll check it for prints back at the lab. I’m getting too old for this shit, I really am.”
He handed the evidence bag containing the finger to Billie and walked away.

“Is he alright?” DI Smyth said.

“Webber?” she said. “He’s fine. He does this every now and then. Don’t take any notice of it. How’s Rupert doing?”
DI Smyth wasn’t expecting this. “What?”

“You must have heard that we’ve broken up.”
“No,” DI Smyth said. “No, I hadn’t heard. So that’s why he’s been acting odd.”
“Is he OK?”

“He’ll be fine,” DI Smyth said. “I think I’ve seen enough here. It’s getting late, and I really need some sleep.”

* * *

Smith was dog-tired. The conversation with the German hypnotist had been an exhausting one and the beer he’d been forced to drink hadn’t helped.

He held up his glass. “What is this stuff?”
“It’s a beer I have brought in from Belgium,” Porter told him. “Export strength. If you’re going to drink beer, you might as well do it properly.”

“We haven’t spoken about your fee,” Smith said. “If you do agree to this, how much would it cost me?”
“I thought York Police would be footing the bill,” Porter said.

“It hasn’t exactly been authorised,” Smith said.
“I see. How do you propose to go about it then? Are you going to smuggle me in to the holding cells under cover of darkness?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. How much do you normally charge?”
“I’d have to give it some thought. Your request is a rather unorthodox one.”
“Do you mind if I step outside to smoke a cigarette?” Smith said.

“By all means,” Porter said. “I’ll join you.”

They went out to the back garden. There was a chill in the air that hadn’t been there earlier, and Smith wondered if this was the first indication that autumn was on its way. He lit a cigarette and offered the packet to Porter. The German hypnotist declined and took out his own pack.

“Menthol,” he said. “Not so deadly. How long have you been a police detective?”
“Too long,” Smith said. “I joined up almost twenty years ago.”
“And did you always want to be a policeman?”
“I never even considered it. I did three years of a law degree and got a bit disillusioned along the way. I decided I would rather be the one who caught the bastards than the one who helped them to walk free.”
“The law is an ass,” Porter said.

“I’ll drink to that. I’d better phone for a taxi. This has been an enlightening night.”
“It certainly has.”
“I’ll give you a call in the morning,” Smith said.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

When Smith woke up the next morning his head felt like Keith Moon was practicing inside it. The eccentric drummer was keeping time with Smith’s heartbeat, and he was doing it extremely loudly. Smith silently cursed the huge German hypnotist and got out of bed. After using the bathroom, he went downstairs and looked for something to help ease his pounding head. Whitton was already up. She was looking at something on her phone at the table.

“Do we have any painkillers?” Smith asked her.

“In the cupboard next to the fridge,” she said. “Where they’re always kept.”
Smith opened the cupboard and took out the packet of paracetamol. He popped two out of the blister pack, put them in his mouth and crunched them with his teeth. He turned on the kettle to make some coffee and sat down opposite Whitton.

“That bastard German made me drink export strength beer.”
“Of course he did,” Whitton said.

“It’s the truth,” Smith said.

“How did it go? You were home late.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Smith said. “I’m not quite sure what to make of him. He seems to know what he’s doing, but I couldn’t quite figure him out. He tried to hypnotise me.”
“You’re kidding?”
“It didn’t work,” Smith said. “He reckons I’m one of the people it’s impossible to hypnotise. I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or not. These painkillers aren’t working.”
“Give them time.”

Smith made them some coffee.

“Shouldn’t the girls be up by now? I thought they had school today.”
“The term only starts tomorrow,” Whitton said. “They’re making the most of it. You do realise that the DI isn’t going to change his mind about the hypnotist, don’t you?”
“I’ll change it for him,” Smith said. “We’re running out of ideas. More people are going to die if we don’t do something. Every time my phone rings I dread answering it in case it’s a call about another dead body.”

Right on cue the phone on the table started to ring. It was the intro to Shine on you Crazy Diamond which meant it was a number he hadn’t assigned a personalised ringtone to.
“Smith,” he answered it.

The person on the other end of the line remained silent.

“Who is this?” Smith said.
“It’s Billie.”
Smith was confused. Billie Jones was in his list of contacts, so why hadn’t her name appeared on the screen?

He asked her.

“I’m not phoning from my phone,” she explained. “We got an ID for the woman found by the bins in Fulford last night and Pete and me are going through her house now. Her phone was in the kitchen – it’s not password or fingerprint protected, and I’m going through her recent calls. Your number is on here. You called her quite a few times, but it looks like she didn’t answer.”
Smith suddenly felt sick.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Susan Landon,” Billie said.

“Fuck it. She gave us her real name. Is she a short woman with brown hair?”
“She is,” Billie confirmed. “Why is your number in her call log?”
“Because she called me with some information about the Creed. Me and Whitton met her on Sunday. Fuck. I promised her that she would be safe.”
“It’s not your fault,” Billie said. “I’d better get back to work.”

She ended the call, and the phone started to ring immediately. This time Smith knew exactly who was calling.

“Boss,” he said.

“Where are you?” DI Smyth said.

“Still at home,” Smith said. “What’s happened?”
“We’ve got another one.”
“I’m starting to seriously dislike those four words. What exactly have we got?”
“Another dead woman,” DI Smyth said. “She was found this morning at the back of the Holiday Inn on George Street.”
“Dumped with the rubbish?” Smith guessed.

“Correct. I want you and Whitton to make a turn there before you come in. It’s likely the hotel has CCTV, so we might get a bit of luck.”

“Billie Jones just called me,” Smith said. “The woman found last night in Fulford is the same women me and Whitton met up with on Sunday.”
“Shit,” DI Smyth said.

“Indeed. Who the hell are these people? She said they had eyes and ears everywhere and she was right. How did they know she’d spoken to us?”
“We don’t know if that’s the reason she was killed.”
“Come on, boss,” Smith said. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. The day after she spills the beans to the police, she ends up dead. This case is starting to really piss me off.”

“We’ll see if we can come up with some new ideas in the briefing when you’ve finished at the Holiday Inn.”
“We need to bring in a hypnotist,” Smith said.

“We’ve discussed that,” DI Smyth said. “And the answer is still no.”
“I think it’s worth a shot. I went to see a German bloke last night. He has a PhD in Psychology from Brown University and he’s a highly trained hypnotist.”
“What part of the answer is no do you not understand?”
“This man can help us get the silent Creed disciples to talk,” Smith said. “We need to do something drastic.”
The line was quiet for a while.

“Are you still there?” Smith said.

“I’m still here,” DI Smyth said. “You say he’s a doctor of psychology?”
“He got his doctorate from an Ivy League college, boss.”
“It might be worth considering bringing him in in his capacity as a psychologist.”
“We might have a problem there.”
“I’m listening.”
“He was struck off,” Smith said.

“This just gets better and better. Forget about the whole thing.”
“It was a stupid mistake,” Smith said. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“Get over to the Holiday Inn. And forget about the whole hypnotism thing.”
This time the drone on the other end of the line told Smith that DI Smyth had hung up.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

“Another day, another fucking crime scene.”
Smith got out of Whitton’s car and lit a cigarette.

In his haste to get to the Holiday Inn he’d forgotten to go and fetch his car from Porter Klaus’s house. He would have to pick it up later.

“You need to relax,” Whitton told him.

They headed for the entrance of the hotel. Spots of rain were starting to fall, and it was much cooler than it had been recently.

“I am relaxed,” Smith said. “All things considered. Those paracetamol tablets haven’t worked.”
     The body of the woman had been found by one of the cleaning staff. The man had been taking out some rubbish when he spotted her legs sticking out between the row of bins. Webber and his team were busy out the back now, but Smith wanted to speak to someone about the CCTV cameras he was sure a hotel like the Holiday Inn would have in operation.

He was in luck. The woman working behind the reception desk told him there were cameras covering most of the exterior of the hotel. Smith asked her for the footage from the one closest to the bins at the back.

“You can come through,” the receptionist said. “Just go through the door on the right.”

The name on her badge was Georgia.

Smith opened the door and he and Whitton made their way to a control room of sorts behind the reception area.

“All the footage is sent to individual screens,” Georgia said and tapped on one of them. “This is the camera facing out onto where the rubbish bins are kept.”

Smith could see Webber and his team carrying out their work.

“Do you need any help retrieving the footage?” Georgia said.
“I reckon we do,” Smith said. “I’m not too clued up with technology.”
“I’ll just get someone to cover for me and I’ll be right back.”

“Where do you want me to start the footage from?” Georgia asked a few minutes later.

“When do the cleaning staff take out the rubbish?” Whitton said.

“The evening team leave about nine,” Georgia said. “And taking out the rubbish is the last thing they do before they go home.”
“Nine last night then,” Smith decided.

“You’re Australian, aren’t you?” Georgia asked him.

She clicked the mouse and brought up the footage from nine the previous evening.

“Is it that obvious?” Smith said.

“I spent the first five years of my life there. I was born in Perth.”
“The posh part of WA,” Smith said. “I left Fremantle when I was a teenager.”
“Do you miss it?”

“No,” Smith said without thinking. “Not one bit. Would it be possible to speed it up a bit?”

Another click of the mouse and the clock at the bottom moved forward at three times normal speed. Nothing changed by the rubbish bins.

They watched for another fifteen minutes and at 21:55 there was a flicker of light in the corner of the screen. The light became brighter, and Smith could make out the silhouettes of two figures next to the bins. Then he had to look away as the screen was filled with intense light.

“They knew about the camera,” he said. “The bastards knew about the CCTV, and they brought along a torch to shine at the lens.”

The torch was a powerful one and it was difficult to make out anything behind it.

Smith forced himself to look at the screen. At 22:03 the light was extinguished, and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The two figures were still there, and he could see what looked like bin bags on the ground below the rubbish bins.

“You can’t make out any of their features,” Smith said.

“It looks like it’s two men,” Whitton said. “Judging from their height and build.”
     Both of them were wearing hooded jackets. The one on the left crouched down and yanked off the bin bag. The footage was good, and Smith could make out the legs of the dead woman. The figure on the right repeated the procedure with the bin bag covering the top half of her body. Then he did something Smith wasn’t expecting. He bent down next to the dead woman and ran his hands through her hair. His companion crouched down too and kissed her on the forehead. He ran his hands over her face and, with a finger he traced a line from her chin to her waist.

“What the hell is he doing to her?” Smith wondered.

“It looks like he’s caressing her,” Whitton said. “He’s being rather tender.”
The slap that followed wasn’t tender at all and even though the CCTV footage was silent Smith could almost hear the violence in it.

“This is really sick,” Whitton said.

“Remind me to tell Webber about the hands on her face,” Smith said. “He might be able to pull some prints.”

The screen was filled with the blinding light again and Smith wondered if the show was over.

“Why only shine the torch at the camera for a short while?” Whitton said.

“It’s pointless,” Smith said. “We can make out what they’re doing afterwards. The tech team should be able to enhance the footage for us and we might get lucky. I don’t think it’s worth watching any more of this.”

He was very wrong. What happened next rendered Smith and Whitton speechless for a moment. They watched as the scene played out on the screen. The torch was turned off and one of the figures opened the lid on a rubbish bin. Smith could make out something on the ground – something that hadn’t been there before. It looked like another bin bag and this one contained something bigger than the woman on the ground. Smith and Whitton watched as the bin bags and whatever was hidden within them was dumped inside the rubbish bin. Just before the lid was closed again the bin bags were removed and they caught sight of a human face.

“Did you see that?” Whitton said.

“I did,” Smith replied. “We’ve got two bodies at the back of the hotel.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Smith and Whitton were outside in less than a minute.

Webber looked them up and down. “That’s as far as you go.”
Neither Smith nor Whitton were suitably dressed for a crime scene.

“There’s another body,” Smith said. “In that rubbish bin.”
He pointed to the one he’d just seen on the CCTV footage.

Billie Jones opened the lid. “Christ.”
Webber stepped closer to get a better look. “No finger.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Smith said.

“That’s up to you to decide?” Webber said. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day for you.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Smith said. “But you might want to check the woman’s face for prints. We’ve just watched the CCTV footage and one of the people who brought her here ran his fingers over her face.”
“I’m really getting too old for this shit,” Webber said. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Let us know what you find.”
Webber didn’t comment on this and Smith didn’t expect him to.

He asked Whitton to make a slight detour on the way to the station. He needed to pick up his car. After a short conversation with DI Smyth, Smith was informed that they still had an hour before the scheduled briefing, so he decided to introduce Whitton to the German hypnotist.

Porter Klaus answered the door almost straight away and Smith wondered if he’d been watching from out of the window.

“Guten Morgen. I was expecting you a little earlier.”

“I had some business I needed to take care of,” Smith said. “This is Detective Sergeant Erica Whitton.”

Porter held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Whitton shook it. “You too.”
“Would you like to come in for some coffee?”
“We’d better get back to work,” Whitton said.

“We’ve got time for a quick coffee,” Smith said.
     They sat in the kitchen this time. Porter made the coffee and remained standing next to the island.

“I still need some time to persuade my boss that you will be beneficial to the investigation,” Smith said. “Right now, he’s not budging.”
“Perhaps I ought to hypnotise him,” Porter suggested.

Whitton started to laugh.

“I’m only joking of course. How long have you two been together?”

“Is it that obvious?” Smith said.

“I’m afraid so. Body language rarely lies. Nor does personal space boundaries. Your peri-personal distance suggests a certain level of intimacy. You are clearly comfortable together and you would rarely see that with work colleagues, even in your line of work. I could be wrong of course.”
“You’re not,” Whitton said. “We’ve been married for what feels like a lifetime.”
“She doesn’t mean that,” Smith said. “But it’s been a while.”

“I’ve given some thought to your Creed,” Porter said.

Smith couldn’t remember asking him to do that.

“Obviously I’d need access to more information before I could be absolutely sure,” Porter said. “But I don’t believe the woman in charge has been abused any more than you or I.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” Whitton said.

“If we were dealing with a creed followed by only women, or only men for that matter it would be feasible. Single sex cults have sprung up all over the world for centuries but this Creed of yours is somewhat paradoxical. Women who have been abused by men would automatically direct their rage towards those men – any man will do, and vice versa for men who have been subjected to violence at the hands of a woman. The same goes for woman-on-woman violence and man-on-man. I believe this woman is doing this for purely selfish reasons.”
“She gets a kick out of the power?” Smith said.

“Something like that.”

Smith finished his coffee. “We’d better get going. Thanks for the chat.”
“Drop by anytime,” Porter said. “It was lovely to meet you.”
He looked at Whitton when he said this.

“Have you ever been hypnotised?” he added.

“Once,” she said. “In my first year at university. I can’t remember a thing about it, but my friends got it all on video and I was made to believe I was a chimpanzee.”
“I assure you I would never subject you to that,” Porter said.

“And I don’t think I’d let you.”
“It’s very possible you wouldn’t even know I was doing it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Smith said.

“It is relatively easy to hypnotise someone without them realising it,” Porter explained. “Perhaps that’s something else you might want to consider.”
“Thanks for the tip.”

Smith thought hard about what the German hypnotist had suggested on the way to the station. All along they’d assumed that the woman pulling the strings of the acolytes of the Creed was doing it because she was just like them – she’d suffered abuse, but what if she really was just a psychopath who took pleasure in watching people kill? It was worth considering. He was also not aware that a person could be hypnotised without realising it and he decided that it was definitely another topic for discussion at the briefing.

His thoughts turned to the CCTV footage from the Holiday Inn. He couldn’t make sense of that. Why had two bodies been dumped at the same time, and why did the man still have his index finger attached to his hand? The headache from earlier was still there, and he hoped he wasn’t about to suffer a migraine. He could do without that right now. He made a mental list of things to bring up at the briefing and each time he went through the list the item at the top of it was the hypnotist. Smith knew that they were going to find more bodies and the only way to prevent that from happening was to enlist the services of someone who might be able to make the two silent suspects in custody talk.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

“Susan Landon,” DI Smyth said.

He wrote her name on the whiteboard underneath the others. The list was getting longer and longer every day and Smith didn’t like it one little bit.

“And now we know the man and the woman found at the Holiday Inn were a married couple.”
“You’re kidding me?” DC Moore said.

“I’m not. Paul and Rita Applegate had been married for ten years.”
DI Smyth added their names to the list.

“Rita was left out in the open,” Smith said. “Next to the rubbish bins, and her husband was stuffed inside one of those bins. It was all caught on camera. Why did they do that?”
“And why was his index finger not removed?” Whitton added.

“This case is bugging the shit out of me,” Smith said. “There’s no consistency to it. We’ve got victims who are both male and female – we’ve got a man with his finger still attached to his hand, and we’ve got too much evidence and nothing to show for it. We’ve got two likely suspects who are refusing to talk, and that’s why we’re no closer to the woman behind it all. Our main priority is to break their vow of silence for them.”
“I will not have this conversation again,” DI Smyth said.

“I wasn’t aware that I was repeating myself.”
“I know exactly what you’re going to say, and the answer is no. Get that into your thick skull.”
Smith laughed without meaning to. DI Smyth had hit the nail on the head – his skull felt thicker than it had done in a very long time.

“Moving on,” DI Smyth said. “Forensics should have some news for us later today about the bodies at the Holiday Inn. A CCTV camera caught the people who brought them there placing their hands on the face of Rita Applegate, and it’s possible there was a transfer of prints.”
“They weren’t wearing gloves,” Smith said. “Which is another thing that’s puzzling me. I understand why they take the bin bags away. Refuse bags are beautiful receptacles for fingerprints, but them not wearing gloves strikes me as pretty careless.”
“Like I said,” DI Smyth said. “We’ll have something from Forensics later today. Mr and Mrs Applegate’s causes of death were different. Rita suffered a knife wound to her neck, but her husband was killed with a single stab to the heart. Rita’s finger was severed rather clumsily. In all the other cases the fingers had been surgically removed, but Rita’s finger looked like it was amputated with a crude instrument. I don’t know if that’s significant or not, but it’s worth thinking about. Susan Landon also died due to a single wound to her neck.”

“She’s the same woman me and Whitton spoke to on Sunday,” Smith said. “She came to us with information about what went on at the Creed meetings, and because of that she’s dead.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” DI Smyth said.

“I know it. I promised her that she would be safe, but the followers of the Creed got to her. How did they know? How did they know she’d spoken to us?”
“They could have been keeping an eye on her,” DC King said.

“Perhaps they were tracking her phone,” DC Moore put forward.

“That’s a bit far-fetched,” Bridge argued. “How was the meeting arranged?”
“She called me,” Smith said. “Well, she called the switchboard first and they gave her my details. It was me who suggested the Hog’s Head, and that was the only time we communicated. Every time I tried to phone her afterwards, it went straight to voicemail.”

“Let’s recap on what we know,” DI Smyth said.

“Let’s not.” It was Smith. “With respect, boss, there is only one way forward in this investigation and that involves getting the people we have in custody to talk. We know they played a part in at least two murders – they know we know, but neither of them are going to open up unless we play dirty. I’m convinced that they’ve been hypnotised, and unless we try to reverse that, we’re not going to get a word out of them. You have to trust me on this. It’s the only chance we have.”
“You are going to be the death of me,” DI Smyth said and turned to Whitton. “How do you manage to live with this man?”
“Most of what he says goes in one ear and out the other,” Whitton said. “The rest of the stuff that comes out of his mouth goes straight over my head.”
“It’s the only way to stay sane,” Bridge joined in.

“He does have a few positive traits,” Whitton said.
“Such as?” DC Moore dared.

“I am still in the room,” Smith reminded them.

“Let’s carry on,” DI Smyth said. “I will consider using the services of a hypnotist. Are you happy now?”
Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“I think it’s safe to push the first few murder victims onto the backburner for now,” DI Smyth said. “We know their stories – all of them liked to use their fists on women, and that’s probably what led to their demise. I want to focus on the victims who do not have a history of violence.”
“Susan Landon was a victim, boss,” Smith said. “She attended the Creed meetings, and she became disillusioned. Their methods proved to be too drastic for her and she left. I’m also starting to wonder if she’s one of the few people who can’t be hypnotised.”
“You’re like a stuck record sometimes,” Bridge said.

“Stuck records are sometimes pretty cool when they’re stuck in the right places,” Smith said.

“Very philosophical,” DC King said.

“Susan was killed because she went to the police,” Smith said. “That’s against the rules of the Creed, and anyone who breaks those rules has to be eliminated.”

“OK,” DI Smyth said. “We know very little about Mr and Mrs Applegate, but neither of them has a criminal record. They’re both squeaky clean, and I think it would be productive to dig a bit deeper into their lives. Why were they both targeted by these people?”

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

“Our numbers are dwindling.”
The woman with the dead eyes looked at the men and women gathered in the stuffy room. There were eight of them left, four women and four men.

“But it was to be expected,” she said. “And it all forms part of your journey. Not everyone can reach the stage you’ve all reached, and you must commend yourself for that. Before we deal with that…”
She pointed to the barely conscious man at her feet. His hands had been bound behind his back and there was a piece of cloth covering the sockets where once his eyes had been. He was shuffling, but there wasn’t much life left in him. Soon there would be none at all.

“Before we deal with that,” the shark-eyed woman said. “I would like to discuss what happened last night. It saddens me, it really does, and we need to ensure that something like that never happens again. He was doing so well – so, so well but he disobeyed the teachings of the Creed. The Creed will determine who we sacrifice, and only the Creed. If you are to find your way out of the darkness and into the light it is vital that you adhere to what is written in the Creed. Our friend didn’t and our friend suffered for it.”

A woman coughed and everybody turned to look at her.

“What happened last night must never be repeated. All of you have been deeply hurt and some of you may have considered fixing what is broken inside you alone, but only the Creed can make that decision. The words of the Creed are final. Shall we begin?”

A man stepped forward and the woman with the lifeless eyes nodded. He got on his knees and stabbed the dying man repeatedly in the chest. The final breath brought with it a stench that reached the remaining acolytes, and more people started to cough. Another man got to work on the dead man’s finger. It was removed quickly and the short spurt of blood that came from the stump was somewhat anticlimactical. With the digit firmly inserted in his mouth, the deceased wife-beater was dragged from the room.

“Soon,” the expressionless woman said. “Soon you will have peace.”

* * *

“Harry,” DI Smyth said. “Could you do the honours with the Bluetooth for the projector?”
DC Moore tapped the keypad of the laptop and enabled the Bluetooth connection.

“I want to take a look at the CCTV footage from the Holiday Inn last night,” DI Smyth said. “The tech team have done as good a job as they could to enhance the footage.”
“That was quick,” Smith said.

“I’m sure you’ll agree that time is of the essence.”
“Just a word of warning,” Smith said. “Shield your eyes. They shine a torch at the camera for some of it, and it’s pretty blinding.”

On Smith’s advice, DC Moore started the footage from 10pm.

“It’s a long shot,” DI Smyth said. “But I want to see if you recognise either of the men. It’s possible that we’ve come across them somewhere in the investigation.”

Smith was impressed with the job the IT team had done with making the video clearer. He didn’t know how they’d done it but the lighting in the footage was different. If it wasn’t for the clock at the bottom of the screen, he wouldn’t have known it was two hours before midnight.

The bin bags containing what they now knew was Rita Applegate were dumped next to the rubbish bins. They were promptly removed, and the woman’s face was revealed.
“The next bit it a bit weird,” Smith warned.

“Bloody hell,” Bridge said.

The man’s caresses were indeed strange.

“Why is he doing that?” DC King said.

“The other bloke joins in now,” Smith said.

“He’s talking to her,” Whitton said. “You couldn’t see his lips move on the original footage but here you can see that he’s saying something to her.”
“And wait for it…”
Smith knew what was about to happen. The man’s slap caused his accomplice to flinch and mouth a few words.

“It’s a shame you can’t hear what they’re saying,” DC Moore said.

“Can any of you lip-read?” Smith asked.

The silence told him that nobody could. DC King looked perplexed.

“What is it, Kerry?” Smith asked her.

“I’m not sure, Sarge,” she said. “Something about the way the man’s lips moved after he slapped her made sense somehow, but I don’t really know why.”
“And that really makes sense,” DC Moore said.

The screen turned white for a few seconds and then the image cleared. The refuse bags containing Paul Applegate had been placed on the ground next to the bin he was soon to be deposited into.

“They’re going to dump him in the bin,” Smith said. “And then they’ll remove the refuse bags. You get a look at his face for a brief moment.”
“I’ll pause it when we see him,” DC Moore said.

The men on the screen did as Smith had described and when Paul Applegate’s face was revealed DC Moore paused the tape. He zoomed in so the face filled the screen.

“Does it ring any bells?” DI Smyth said.

“Never seen him before,” Bridge said.

“Me neither,” Smith said.

“Nor me,” Whitton joined in.

“Like I said,” DI Smyth said. “It was a long shot. This is a big city. What about the men who brought the bodies there?”
“The hoodies they’re wearing don’t help,” Bridge said. “And even when you do get a brief glimpse of their faces, they’re not ones I recognise.”

“Go back,” DC King said. “Go back to when one of the men slaps the woman.”
“What are you thinking, Kerry?” DI Smyth said.

“I’m not quite sure. I just want to see it again.”
DC Moore obliged. The slap came and the other man reacted.

“I think he’s asking why he slapped her,” DC King said. “And I’m sure the other man is telling him it’s because she’s a fucking violent bitch. Excuse my language.”
“You’re excused,” Smith said. “Rewind the tape again and let’s see if we can see it too.”

“I think Kerry is right,” Whitton said shortly afterwards.

“Are you saying Rita Applegate knocked her husband about?” DC Moore said.

“It happens, Harry,” DI Smyth said.

“I suppose it does,” DC Moore said.

“It makes sense,” Smith said. “Mr Applegate’s finger wasn’t removed and shoved in his mouth, and that’s because he isn’t the abuser. But why did they kill him too?”
“Perhaps he broke the rules of the Creed,” Bridge suggested. “Maybe he broke his vow of silence like Susan Landon did. Look how she ended up.”
“No,” Smith said. “Susan had a finger in her mouth. This is one fucked up investigation.”

“I don’t think we’re going to get anything more from the CCTV footage,” DI Smyth said. “Let’s move on to Mrs Landon. Billie took a number of photographs of the crime scene, and she’s sent them over to us. It’s worth seeing if Mrs Landon has cropped up somewhere in the past few days.”
“We know she has,” Smith said. “Me and Whitton met her at the Hog’s Head on Sunday. We know exactly what she looks like.”
“For the benefit of the rest of us,” DI Smyth said. “Harry.”
“We know what she looks like boss,” Smith said. “I can describe her to you if you want. We know what she…”
     No further words came out. The image of the dead woman in Fulford appeared on the screen and Smith stared at it with his mouth still wide open.

“That’s not her.”
“What?” DI Smyth said.

“He’s right,” Whitton said. “That isn’t the woman we met at the Hog’s Head.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

“The woman found by the bins in Fulford is definitely Susan Landon,” DI Smyth confirmed. “Billie said there were a number of photographs on the walls inside her house. The woman in the photos is definitely the dead woman.”
“I’m not disputing that,” Smith said. “I’m just telling you it’s not the same woman me and Whitton met on Sunday, and if that’s the case how did my number end up in the call log on her phone?”

“It’s a mystery,” DC Moore said.

“Thanks for that, Harry,” Smith said. “I wasn’t aware that it was a fucking mystery.”

“Let’s look at the timescale involved,” DI Smyth suggested. “When did the woman you met up with contact you?”
“Sunday,” Smith said.

He took out his phone and brought up his own call log.

“Just after six. I suggested we meet at the Hog’s Head in an hour. It says here that I called her again at ten past seven.”
“We didn’t know what she looked like,” Whitton reminded him. “I asked you to phone her to ask her, but she turned up five minutes later anyway.”
Smith scrolled down his call history. “I phoned her again a few times after that, but all the calls went straight to voicemail. How did her phone end up in Susan Landon’s house?”
“Do you think they might know each other?” DC King said. “Susan and the woman who told you her name was Sue?”

“It’s the only logical explanation,” Smith said. “How else would the phone end up where it did? And if the dead woman isn’t the woman we met up with, why did she have to die? As far as we know she doesn’t have a history of violence, so why was she killed by the members of the Creed?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” DI Smyth said. “We’ve got a lot of work to get through. We need to speak to everybody who knew Susan Landon and the same goes for Mr and Mrs Applegate.”
“You haven’t forgotten about the hypnotist,” Smith said.

“I haven’t forgotten. We should have more to look at from a forensics perspective later this afternoon, but in the meantime let’s focus on building a picture of the three most recent victims.”

* * *

Smith rang the bell of the house next door to where Rita and Paul Applegate lived and rubbed his hands together.

“Autumn’s definitely on the way,” he said.

The door was opened by a man with a long grey beard.

“Hello there.”
Smith thought his voice sounded fake. It was overly cheery and it made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

“Am I glad to see you,” the man added. “Come in, come in and I’ll lead you to the problem.”
“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” DC King said.

“Are you not from the IT company?”

Smith took out his ID and introduced himself. DC King did the same.

“We’d like to talk to you about the couple who live next door,” Smith said.

“I suppose you’d better come in then.”

They sat down in the living room. The man told them his name was Bob Wood, and he lived alone.

“I was really hoping you were the computer people,” he said.

“I’m afraid what I know about computers is laughable,” Smith said.

“What’s the problem?” DC King said.

“No Internet,” Bob said. “It’s been down since last night and I was hoping to Skype my brother in New Zealand later.”
“I hope you get it sorted out,” Smith said. “How well do you know Mr and Mrs Applegate?”
“As well as anyone knows their neighbours these days, I suppose. What happened? I saw the police there earlier.”
“We’re just trying to find out more about them,” DC King said.

The doorbell sounded and Bob got to his feet so quickly Smith was sure he heard something crack.

“Do you mind?” he said. “I really need to get my Internet fixed before the Skype call with my brother. We speak once a week.”
“Go ahead,” Smith said.

“I’ll pop the kettle on while I’m at it. What would you prefer – coffee or tea?”
“Coffee would be great,” Smith said.

“What a strange man,” DC King said when she heard the front door open.

“That voice is enough to give me the creeps,” Smith said.

“He sounds like an old drama teacher of mine, and he did give me the creeps.”
     Bob returned five minutes later with a tray of coffee.

“Problem solved. The sim in the router had slipped and I didn’t realise. Fifty quid for a couple of minute’s work. I’m in the wrong job.”
“What do you do?” DC King said.

“Teacher,” Bob said. “I’m retired now. Help yourselves to the coffee.”
Smith poured himself half a cup and took a sip. It was good coffee.

“When was the last time you saw Mr and Mrs Applegate?” he asked.

“I saw Paul yesterday,” Bob said. “When he got back from work. I kept an eye out for him.”
“Why was that?” DC King said.

“Because it was his birthday, and I wanted to give him his present. It was just a bottle of wine, but he seemed to appreciate it.”
This made Smith feel slightly depressed. Paul Applegate had been murdered on his birthday.

“Why didn’t you just take the wine next door?” DC King said.

“Because I didn’t want to bump into that wife of his.”
“Why not?” Smith said.

“Because she scares me, that’s why. What’s happened?”
“We’re still trying to put together the pieces,” Smith said. “Mrs Applegate scared you – why is that?”

“Is Paul alright? Has she finally gone too far this time?”
“Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“I know what goes on over there,” Bob said. “I’m not deaf and I’m not stupid. I’ve heard the screams and I’ve seen the bruises. Oh, he always tries to hide them but I’m not daft. Things have definitely changed, haven’t they?”

“I’m not following you,” Smith said.

“Gone are the days when it was the bloke knocking his wife about. Now the roles are reversed. I blame those bloody feminists. You know the ones, with their hairy legs and crazy ideas.”
     Smith wondered if they were wasting their time. He’d taken a sudden dislike to Bob Wood.

“Did you see either of your neighbours after that?” he asked.

“I can’t say I did,” Bob said.

“Did you hear them at all?” DC King said.

“No, but they had a visitor last night.”
“What time was this?” Smith said.

“About eight.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was round about then. That’s when my Internet went on the blink.”
“Did you see who this visitor was?” Smith said.

“It was a man.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”

“I wasn’t paying him much attention, although I thought it was an odd time to be picking stuff up.”
“Picking stuff up?” Smith repeated.

“I assumed that’s what he was doing. I thought maybe he’d bought something from Paul or Rita, and he was there to collect it.”
“Did you see what car he was driving?” DC King said.

“It was a van,” Bob said. “A white van.”
“And you saw him putting something inside it?” Smith said.

“I wasn’t being nosy or anything.”
“It’s OK. Did you see what he was putting inside the van?”
“I didn’t, no. I just caught a glimpse of him loading the van, and then he slammed the doors closed. He drove off after that. I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more than that.”
     Smith didn’t need any more than that – he knew exactly what was being loaded into the van last night. It was Paul and Rita Applegate.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

The door to the house next door to where Susan Landon lived opened before Bridge and DC Moore were even halfway up the path. A young woman with black hair stepped outside and smiled at Bridge. Bridge reciprocated and introduced himself and DC Moore.

“Is this about what happened next door?” the woman said. “I’m Caroline.”
“That’s a lovely name,” Bridge said. “Can we come in and have a chat?”
“Follow me,” Caroline said and went back inside the house.

“Easy, Sarge,” DC Moore whispered as he and Bridge followed her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Harry,” Bridge said.

The grin on his face told a different story.

“What makes you think something happened next door?” Bridge said in the living room.

“The police were all over the place,” Caroline said. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, or a beer perhaps.”
“Maybe another time,” Bridge said.

“Has something happened to Susan?”

“I’m afraid it has,” Bridge said. “She was attacked, and the attack was fatal.”
“She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid she is.”

“Oh my God. Do I need to be concerned?”
“No,” Bridge said. “You’re not in any danger. What was Susan like?”
“I liked her. I haven’t been living here for very long, but we’ve become good friends. Who killed her?”
“We’re still trying to find out,” DC Moore said. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Probably at the weekend. It was. I work at a pub on the Hull Road on Saturday nights and she popped in for a few drinks.”

“How well did you know her?” Bridge said.

“I would say we were friends,” Caroline said.

“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?”

“I don’t think so. She never mentioned one and I’ve never seen any blokes coming and going. I’m scared. What if whoever did it comes back for me too.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Bridge said. “I promise you. Here’s one of my cards – if at any time you feel threatened, give me a call, day or night.”
He took out a card and handed it to her. She held onto his hand for much longer than was appropriate.

“You say that you and Susan were friends,” Bridge said when she’d finally relinquished the hand. “Did she ever mention anything about attending some meetings?”
“What kind of meetings?” Caroline said.

“Some kind of self-help meetings,” DC Moore said.

“I can’t remember her ever talking about that.”
“The meetings were for victims of abuse,” Bridge said. “Did Susan ever give you any indication that she’d ever been in an abusive relationship?”

“No. I would have remembered something like that. Are you telling me that she used to get knocked about?”
“We’re not sure, but it’s possible. What do you do for a living? Apart from the job at the pub, I mean.”

“I’m a blogger,” Caroline said. “Fashion, mostly. I do alright and I get given a load of free stuff.”
“So, you work from home a lot?” DC Moore said.

“I can work from anywhere,” Caroline said. “But I do most of my stuff here.”

“Can you remember seeing or hearing anything strange in the last twenty-four-hours?” Bridge said. “Unusual noises or raised voices?”
“I don’t think so, but I like to play music when I’m working. It helps me to concentrate.”

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” Bridge said.

“You’re not interrupting anything. What did you say your name was again?”
“Detective Sergeant Bridge.”
“Detective Sergeant,” Caroline said. “I like that.”
     DC Moore stood up. “I think we’ve covered everything.”
Bridge did the same. “Give me a call anytime.”
Caroline smiled at him. “I’ll do that.”

She reached for her phone and swiped the screen. She tapped in a number and soon afterwards Bridge’s phone beeped.

“Now you have my number too,” Caroline said.

Bridge grinned.

“We’d better be off,” DC Moore said and left the room.

Bridge followed him. The grin was stuck to his face all the way back to the car.

“I can’t believe you did that, Sarge,” DC Moore said in the car.

“Did what?” Bridge said.

“You all but asked her out on a date.”
“Rupert Bridge is a free man, Harry,” Bridge said. “She’s a pretty young woman.”
“You’re supposed to be working.”
“I can multitask. You’re just jealous.”
“I am not. She’s not my type.”
“There’s no such thing as a type,” Bridge said.

“What now?” DC Moore said.

“Susan Landon’s parents,” Bridge told him. “They live in Fulford.”
“Isn’t that where her body was found?”
“York isn’t such a big place, Harry.”

He turned the key in the ignition, and he was about to pull away from the kerb when his phone beeped to tell him he’d received a message. He opened the phone and looked at DC Moore.

“What’s wrong?” the man from London asked. “That look on your face is scaring me.”
“It looks like I’ve got a date with a pretty fashion blogger,” Bridge informed him.

“God help her.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Harry. Just face it – you’ve either got it or you haven’t.”

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

“Thank you for coming in,” DI Smyth said.

“My days are not as full as they once were,” Porter Klaus told him.

“DS Smith mentioned something about you not practicing anymore.”
“Did he tell you the reason why?”

“He didn’t, no,” DI Smyth said.

“I made a mistake. My intentions were good.”
“That’s all I need to know. Did Smith explain to you what we’re dealing with?”
“He believes you have two people in custody who are refusing to talk because they’ve been hypnotised.”
“He’s convinced that that’s the case,” DI Smyth said. “And when Smith gets an idea in his head it’s impossible to change his mind.”
“He’s in possession of a truly remarkable mind,” Porter said. “Did he tell you that I tried to hypnotise him, and I failed?”
“He didn’t, no, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Do you think you can help us?”
“I can try my best.”

“I’ll tell you what we know about the suspects,” DI Smyth said. “And perhaps you can then talk me through the process of hypnosis. Both suspects are victims of abuse. They have both suffered physical abuse at the hands of someone close to them, and both of them attended meetings promising them retribution.”
“The Creed,” Porter said. “Smith mentioned it.”
“We believe the disciples of this Creed have been mentally manipulated, and possibly hypnotised without realising it.”
“It’s possible.”
“We also have reason to believe that a vow of silence is essential to the Creed. We have damning evidence that implicates both suspects in at least two murders, but we’re probably looking at more than that.”

“How do you want to go about this?” Porter asked.

“We need to tread carefully,” DI Smyth said. “It’s doubtful that anything said under hypnosis will be admissible as evidence. It’s also possible that the crimes these people have committed could be seen to have been carried out under severe duress, and diminished responsibility could come into play. DS Smith isn’t concerned with that – he wants the woman responsible, and he’s not worried about the legal side of things, but I am. Talk me through the process.”
“There’s no guarantee that this is going to work,” Porter said. “It’s very possible that the spell they’re under can’t be broken, to put it crudely. And usually, for hypnosis to be successful the recipient has to be willing and open to it.”
“Smith thinks it will work.”
“You hold him in high regard, don’t you?”
“He’s the reason I’m prematurely grey,” DI Smyth said. “Smith is the most irritating person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, but he’s also the most gifted detective I’ve worked alongside. He’s his own worst enemy, but he's a good man and I would rather have him by my side in a crisis than anyone else. I’m ex-army and I know the value of going into battle with the right people.”

“Tell me some more about the suspects,” Porter said. “I’ll decide for myself how I’m going to handle things when I see them, but it would be useful to have a bit of background information.”
“Theresa Nolan is forty years old,” DI Smyth said. “We got a stroke of luck with her when she left her fingerprints at the scene of one of the murders. She was arrested for shoplifting and her prints were on file. There’s a strong possibility that she was in an abusive relationship sometime in the past, but there’s nothing to corroborate this. The detectives who carried out the initial interview were met with silence no matter what tricks they tried. These are experienced detectives, and they failed to get her to crack.”
“Can I ask if the officers you’re referring to are women?” Porter said. “Because if Theresa suffered at the hands of a man, she’ll be distrustful of males and reluctant to talk to one.”
“I considered that,” DI Smyth said. “Two of our female detectives carried out the interview. We don’t know much more than that about Theresa.”

“The other suspect is a man, isn’t he?” Porter said.

“David Wells,” DI Smyth said. “We got another bit of luck with him. One of my detectives recognised him in some CCTV footage. They frequent the same pub and he’s never been seen to smile. Dismal Dave, they call him. His name came up a few times in cases of domestic violence. Twice, he was hospitalized by the man he was in a relationship with. The partner was arrested and charged with GBH, but he skipped bail. He’s still AWOL. Justice wasn’t served and we believe that’s how David was so easily manipulated. This is the most complicated investigation any of us has ever encountered, and that’s why I’ve agreed to such drastic measures.”
“Hypnotism, you mean?”
“Correct. I don’t need to remind you that everything I’ve told you is strictly confidential.”
“I’m well acquainted with confidentiality,” Porter said. “It goes with the territory.”
“Of course. We need to discuss your fee. Resources are tight, and I’m not sure how much I can justify allocating for something like this.”
“There will be no charge.”
“I can’t abuse your expertise like that.”
“Consider me a civilian doing his public duty. I’m not short of funds. I may not be able to practice anymore, but I made some wise investment decisions a while ago, and I’m very comfortably off.”
“I appreciate that,” DI Smyth said. “I really do. Is there anything else I need to know before I introduce you to our silent suspects?”
“Don’t expect too much. Like I said there is no guarantee that I’ll be able to get them to talk.”
“We have to try,” DI Smyth said. “Smith is convinced that this is the only way to put a stop to this.”
“No pressure then?”
“No pressure,” DI Smyth said.

CHAPTER FORTY

“My name is Porter Klaus, and I’ve been asked to have a chat with you.”
Theresa Nolan hadn’t even acknowledged him when he came into the interview room.

“I’m a psychologist,” Porter said. “And I think it would help you to talk to me. Is it OK if I call you Theresa?”
She didn’t react.

“My sister is called Theresa. I haven’t seen her in years. She stayed in Germany.”
This was a blatant lie, but Porter didn’t think a bit of artistic license was against the rules.

“How are you feeling?” he said. “This must be hard for you – being away from your family and friends. Have your family been informed? I assume they have. Has anyone been to see you? I apologise – I’m asking too many questions. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

Theresa looked at him now, but Porter couldn’t gauge her frame of mind from her expression. She was very difficult to read.

“I don’t think you meant to go this far, Theresa. And I don’t believe it was your fault. Is that a safe assumption to make? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Porter expected this to be difficult, but the lack of reaction from Theresa Nolan told him it was going to be harder than he thought.

He decided to go out on a limb. The conversation wasn’t being recorded and the only people privy to it were in the interview room.

“I lied to you. I’m not actually a psychologist. I was once, many moons ago but the people in charge took away my license. I made a mistake, and I paid dearly for it. A woman came to me for help, and I let her down. I misdiagnosed her and the treatment I thought would help her made her worse. She took a leap from a thirty-storey building and it was all over for her.”

He took a moment to observe Theresa Nolan. He was sure he detected a slight change in her expression. She was taking an interest in him now.

“When they found out that I’d gone against their recommendations for her treatment,” Porter carried on. “I was struck off on the spot. Everything I’d ever worked towards was taken away from me in an instant. And all because I tried to help a woman who came to me in a state of despair. All I’ve ever wanted to do was help people. I think I can help you too, and I promise you I’ll try my best to keep you away from tall buildings afterwards.”

If he was hoping for a response from Theresa, he certainly got one, but her reaction wasn’t what he was expecting. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

“You’re funny.”
“I’ve thought about a career on the stage,” Porter said. “Do you think I’ll be any good?”
“I’d pay to see you.”
“I’m flattered. Perhaps we should start over. I’m Porter Klaus.”
“Theresa Nolan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Theresa Nolan. Have you ever been to Germany?”
She nodded. “I went to Munich when I was a student.”
“Beautiful Munich. I have a cousin there. What did you do when you were there?”
“We visited Dachau. I didn’t like it.”
“I think that’s the idea,” Porter said. “Is there anywhere you’d rather be right now? Where is your absolute favourite place in the world?”
She laughed. “You’re going to think it’s silly.”
“OK,” Porter said. “What if I told you my dream destination is Skagen in northern Denmark. It’s bleak and cold and I love the place.”

“The island of Mull,” Theresa said.

“I’ve never visited.”

“We used to go there when I was little. It’s quite far north but the summers can get really warm. We swam with jellyfish one year.”
“That sounds exquisite. I believe the sea up there is something akin to the Caribbean. Blues and greens like you can’t describe. Tell me about the jellyfish. Close your eyes if you wish.”
     Theresa kept her eyes open. “They didn’t sting. I expected them to sting but they didn’t.”
“Did you touch them?”

Theresa nodded.

“Tell me what that was like.”
“Odd. We knew they were there, but there was no substance to them.”
“Tell me some more,” Porter said. “I can think of nothing more serene than drifting with the waves amongst the jellyfish.”
“The water was warm.”
“Was the sun shining?”
“Sometimes. But the beach was quiet.”
“Bliss,” Porter said. “Close your eyes and imagine you’re back with the jellyfish.”

Theresa obliged. Porter thought she seemed more relaxed now.

“Tell me about the Creed.”

Theresa remained silent.

“How does she choose you?” Porter said. “How were you selected?”

“She approached me one afternoon.”
Her voice was different now. Porter wondered if she was in a trance.

“Did you recognise her?”

“I’d never seen her before,” Theresa said.

Her eyes opened.

“Where do these meetings take place?” Porter asked.

“Different places.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“Margaret fucking Thatcher.”
She started to laugh.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid. Did you think I didn’t know what you were trying to do. I’ve never been to the island of Mull, and I’ve never swum with jellyfish. Fucking jellyfish – I’m not insane.”
Porter begged to differ.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Bullshit. I know who you are, and I know what you are. You taught her everything.”
“What do you mean by that?”

It was as though a door had been shut in his face. Porter looked at Theresa Nolan and knew instinctively that the conversation was over. The glaze over her eyes told him she wasn’t going to say anything else.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

The interview with David Wells wasn’t any more productive. Porter tried a different approach with him – he talked about hypnosis in order to gain his trust but it backfired. David clammed up two minutes into the conversation. He suspected that some kind of tripwire had been put in place when the suspects were originally hypnotised and he’d well and truly activated it.

He told Smith and DI Smyth as much.

“How is that even possible?” DI Smyth said.

“It’s easier than you think,” Porter said. “Have you ever seen a hypnotist on television? It’s part of the entertainment value of them. It could be a certain word or a simple hand gesture. When a mind is pre-programmed to react to a particular stimuli, in theory a hypnotist can make them think anything he wants them to think.”

“Whitton was hypnotised to believe she was a chimp,” Smith remembered.

“What?” DI Smyth said.

“It was before my time.”

“Something interesting was revealed in the session with Theresa Nolan,” Porter said. “I believe I was starting to get through whatever barrier had been erected and she revealed something she didn’t intend to.”
“What did she say?” Smith said.

“When she’d finished swearing at me and informing me that she knew exactly what my game was, she blurted out that I taught her everything.”
“What did she mean by that?” DI Smyth said. “What did you teach Theresa?”
“She wasn’t referring to herself,” Porter said. “I think she was talking about the woman you’re looking for. She said I know who you are and I know what you are and then she said I taught her everything. She was well aware that I was a hypnotist, and it led me to believe that your Creed woman and I have crossed paths.”

“What did you teach her?” Smith wondered. “What did Theresa think you’d taught the Creed bitch?”
“Shortly after I was prohibited from practicing, I did some research and I realised that there was nothing stopping me from using my expertise in other ways. I couldn’t practice, but I could teach – I could pass on what I’d learned and that’s exactly what I did.”
“Where did you teach?” DI Smyth asked.

“No educational establishment would touch me with a bargepole,” Porter said. “Even with a PhD from Brown, I was a pariah in the world of psychology. I would always be the shrink that prompted a woman to throw herself off a building. But this is the twenty-first century, and the Internet is king.”
“You taught psychology on the net?” Smith said.

“Among other things. I set up Podcasts and I did a number of YouTube videos, and some of the ones that featured various aspects of hypnotherapy gained momentum. Subscribers would tune in to learn the finer aspects of hypnotism, and I believe your Creed woman is one of them.”

Smith took a moment to consider this. If Porter Klaus was right, it meant that there was a possibility they would be able to trace her from her Internet activity. It also meant that the German hypnotist had played a part in the atrocities that had plagued the city in the past few days.

“Do you remember the people who logged on to your Podcasts?” he asked.

Porter laughed. “God no. I may be an expert in the human mind, but memory has never been my strong suit.”
“It should be possible to check,” DI Smyth said. “We’re going to need you to liaise with our IT team. I apologise for the inconvenience.”
“No apology necessary,” Porter said. “This has been a rather enlightening time for me. Perhaps you and I could discuss things in more detail over a few drinks this evening.”
“I’d like that,” DI Smyth said.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” Smith said. “I reckon we’re onto something here. I can’t thank you enough.”
He left DI Smyth and Porter Klaus and made his way outside. He bumped into Whitton on his way out.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you outside,” Smith said. “I need a cigarette.”

“Neither of them fell for it,” he said. “But Porter seems to think Theresa Nolan was on the verge of being hypnotised and she mentioned something that’s worth looking into.”
He told her about Theresa telling Porter than he’d taught her everything she knew.

“And you think she was referring to the woman in charge of the Creed?” Whitton said.

“Who else could it be? Porter is going to work with the tech team to see if we can find out who has logged on to his tutorials.”
“This is incredible,” Whitton said. “Who would have thought that a break would come from a German hypnotist?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Smith said. “I think the boss is in love.”
“What are you talking about? Who with?”
“The German hypnotist. They’re going out for a few drinks.”
“There must be something in the air,” Whitton said. “Harry told me that Bridge has a date with the woman who lives next door to Susan Landon.”
“That man has serious problems,” Smith said. “Billie only broke up with him five minutes ago.”
“You know what he’s like. Bridge will never change. What’s the next plan of action?”
“I really don’t know. It’s been a weird day, but I think we’re going to get a break with the hypnotist. I reckon the boss is going to wish we’d brought him in sooner, especially if something develops between them. I suppose I ought to have warned him not to drink any of the Belgium beer he likes.”

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

“What are you doing?” Bridge asked DC Moore.

The man from London was looking at something on the screen of his laptop.

“I’m taking a look at the hypnotist’s stuff on the net. Some of his YouTube videos have thousands of views. If we believe the Creed woman learned from him it’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack. You know how tricky it is to find out who the subscribers to YouTube and podcasts are. Most of them are listed under a username and it’s rarely anything to do with their real name. I mean, look at this – Jokey Bitch24. It’s going to be an impossible task, and even if we do get a bit of luck, I doubt she’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind her. She’ll probably have used an encrypted server.”
“That’s not our problem,” Bridge said. “We have people specially trained in that kind of thing. What do you reckon – a meal at a restaurant or a more casual thing at a nice pub?”
“What?”
“Caroline,” Bridge said. “I was wondering where to take her for our first date.”
“And you’re asking me?”
“I was merely thinking out loud,” Bridge said. “But you’re right – I can’t remember you ever talking about a girlfriend.”
“Not everybody is like you. Some of us like to keep our personal lives personal.”

“I reckon I’ll impress her with a decent restaurant. There’s a new Italian place just opened up in Holgate.”

Smith came inside the office and DC Moore was glad. He was tired of listening to Bridge.

“Harry reckons it’s going to be a mammoth task trying to find the Creed woman from the list of people who your hypnotist has taught on the net,” Bridge said. “His posts are more popular than I thought.”

“Porter is going to work with the IT team,” Smith said. “I think this woman will stand out from the others. It’s possible something will jog his memory when he goes back through the stuff he’s posted online. It might be something as simple as a comment, or a subscriber who has taken an overly keen interest in his work. It’s worth a shot. Me and Whitton are off home.”
“It’s only just gone five,” DC Moore said.
“Boss’s orders. You’re welcome to stick around, but I’ve had enough for today.”
     Bridge was on his feet in a flash.

“I don’t need to be told twice. I have a hot date with a fashion blogger to get ready for.”
Smith looked at the jeans and shirt Bridge was wearing.

“I’d choose what you’re going to wear carefully if I were you.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“It’s just something to consider.”
“If I need any fashion advice,” Bridge said. “I’ll ask someone with a bit of fashion sense. No offence.”
“None taken. See you in the morning.”

Whitton was talking on the phone next to her car. Smith walked over to her and waited for her to finish.

“That was the adoption agency,” she said. “An appointment has been set up for Fran to see Dr Vennell.”
“When is it happening?” Smith asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at half-four. It’s the first day of the new school term and the agency thought it was important for Fran not to miss her first day back.”

“Shit,” Smith said. “We don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. Who’s going to take her?”
“We’ll figure something out. If we get stuck at work, we can always ask Darren. He has his license now.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ll see you at home.”

“I’m going to make a turn past my parents’ house,” Whitton said. “I won’t stay long.”
“If you say so. I know what it’s like when you get talking to your mum. I’ll make something for us to eat.”

* * *

It turned out to be unnecessary. Smith had no sooner turned the key in the lock when the door to the house next door opened and Lucy came outside.

“Do you want to come round for tea?” she asked. “I’m making meatballs and pasta.”
“Sounds good,” Smith said. “Are the girls with you?”
Lucy nodded. “Laura and Fran are monopolizing the TV remote control.”
“We appreciate you looking after them,” Smith said.

“What are big sisters for? Come round anytime.”
“Erica is at her parents’ house, but I’ll send her a message about the meatballs. Fran has an appointment with the child psychologist tomorrow after school. We might need to ask if Darren can take her there.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind,” Lucy said.

“I’ll go into work with Erica tomorrow,” Smith told her. “And leave my car here just in case. I just need to feed the dogs and have a quick shower. Meatballs and pasta sounds great.”

He went inside the house and headed for the kitchen. After opening a beer, he filled the dog’s bowls with food and opened the back door. Theakston and Fred followed him out and headed straight for the bottom of the garden. Smith lit a cigarette and sat down on the bench. He sensed that they’d overlooked something during the course of the investigation – it was impossible not to, and he thought about what they could have missed this time. Nothing occurred to him, and he didn’t force it. Experience had taught him that moments of insight rarely came when you wanted them too – they would appear when he least expected them. He finished his cigarette and went inside to have a quick shower. He heard a car door close outside – Whitton was home.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

“Are you ready for college tomorrow?” Smith asked Lucy.

The Smith clan were sitting around the table in the house where Lucy and Darren lived with their one-year-old Andrew. She’d made a dish of meatballs and pasta, and Smith was already onto his second helping.

“I am,” she said. “I can’t wait.”
“You’re weird,” Smith said. “I used to wish the school holidays would never end.”
“That’s because you went to school in Australia, Mr Smith,” Darren Lewis said. “The summer holidays here are too long.”

“Does he need help there?” Whitton nodded to the baby boy.

Andrew was feeding himself and he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Most of the pasta was either on his face or on the floor. The sauce the meatballs had been cooked in was dripping from his chin.

“Why don’t you stick a bib on him?” Smith said.

“I couldn’t find it,” Darren said.

“He’ll be fine,” Lucy said. “I’ll clean him up when he’s finished.”

“We might need your help tomorrow,” Smith told Darren. “Fran has an appointment with the child psychologist, and we don’t know if we’ll be able to get away from work. I’ll leave my car here for you.”
“No problem,” Darren said.

“Why do I have to go there?”

It was Fran. Smith had forgotten she was there.

“It’s to help the people who decide where you get to live,” Whitton said.

“They’re a bit dumb,” Smith added. “And they need the advice of someone who isn’t.”
“What Jason means is it’s important that they’re absolutely sure that you’re happy,” Whitton said.

“I am happy,” Fran said.

“The lady you’ll be seeing will tell them that,” Smith told her. “You’ll like her.”

“What time is the appointment?” Darren said.
“Half-four. What time do you finish college?”
“We wanted to talk to you about that,” Lucy said.

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“You’re going to have a boring adult conversation, aren’t you?” Laura said.

“It looks like it,” Smith said.

“Can we go and watch television?”
“Go on then,” Whitton said.

The girls didn’t need to be told twice. They were out of the room in a flash.

“I’m not going back,” Darren said.

“You’re dropping out?” Whitton said. “I thought you enjoyed it.”
“It’s not that,” Darren said. “The stuff on the syllabus this year is nothing I don’t already know. I can’t see the point in studying something I’ve already done.”
“What are you going to do then?” Smith said.

“I want to keep up to date,” Darren said. “IT changes every day, and I’ll carry on with it, but college isn’t going to do me any favours. I’ll be able to get more IT work, and I’ll have more time to look after Andy.”
“Andrew,” Lucy corrected.

“I’ll be home more with the baby,” Darren said and grinned at her. “It’s win-win. We’ll have more money coming in and I’ll have more time with him.”
“We should be able to afford more rent,” Lucy said.

“I don’t care about that,” Smith said. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“I’ve thought hard about it,” Darren told him. “What’s the point in wasting time learning stuff you already know? It’s not going to help me get a better job when I’ve finished.”

Smith couldn’t argue with that. He knew where Darren was coming from and from what he’d seen, the teenager was streets ahead of anyone he’d ever met where computers were concerned. An idea came to him.

“What do you know about podcasts and YouTube?”

“I’m going to take Andrew up for his bath,” Lucy said.

“Talk to me about podcasts and YouTubers,” Smith said.

“There isn’t much to them,” Darren said.

“Is it possible to trace the subscribers?”
“It depends on whether the subscription is free or paid. But even if you do have a subscriber who sets up an account and pays for the podcast, there’s always the possibility that they’ll be using an encrypted server.”
“What about the payments themselves?” Smith said. “Surely you can trace them through those.”
“If they’re using real money, yes,” Darren said.

“What else would they use?”
“Cryptocurrency.”
“Bitcoins?” Smith had at least heard of those.

“Not necessarily. There are various units of cryptocurrency and, because the money is basically virtual it means it’s trickier to trace than a traditional financial transaction.”
“How does someone get their hands on this virtual money?” Smith said.

“You buy it like you’d buy anything else, but once the cryptos are in cyberspace they’re like anything else in cyberspace – easy to hide. Why are you so interested in this?”

“No reason,” Smith said.

He had no doubt that Darren’s decision not to go back to college was a reasonable one. He really did know his stuff, and half of the words that came out of his mouth were indecipherable as far as Smith was concerned.

“Do you want any help with the dishes?” he said.

“I’ll do them,” Darren offered. “I suppose I’d better make a start on learning how to be a househusband.”
Smith watched him go. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d had his reservations about the young man, but things had changed, and he’d developed a certain respect for him. It was obvious that he loved Lucy, and he took his responsibilities extremely seriously.

“What are you thinking?” Whitton asked him.

“I’m not thinking anything,” Smith said.

“You can’t fool me – I know that look on your face.”

“He’s come a long way, hasn’t he?”
“Darren?”
“He’s no longer the cocky little bastard he was when we first met him. He’s grown up.”
“Kids do that to you,” Whitton said. “I remember when Laura was born - you grew up in an instant.”
“I was thirty years old.”
“What’s your point?”

“Do you think we’re going to catch this bitch?” Smith’s tone turned serious. “I’m running out of ideas.”
“We’ll catch her,” Whitton said.

“We’ve missed something. I’m sure that we’ve missed something vital. The chain of events are all over the place, and that makes me wonder if it was intentional.”

“Are you suggesting some kind of misdirection?”

“I reckon I am,” Smith said. “We know this woman is a master manipulator and I’m starting to wonder if her mental manipulation skills stretch to the people on the team. What if she’s controlling the narrative of the investigation every step of the way. She’s got a specific agenda and the way she feels nothing about eliminating people who don’t stick to her plan makes me wonder if we’re going to be able to stop her.”

“She’s has proven herself to be ruthless,” Whitton agreed. “And she has people under her spell.”
“Those people are dispensable,” Smith said. “She’s proven that.”
“We know absolutely nothing about her. We’ve got a pile of dead bodies, and we know sod all about the woman responsible for it.”
“She’s got dead eyes,” Smith said. “And that’s about all we know. Sue told us that her eyes are devoid of emotion.”
“It makes sense. She’s definitely emotionless.”
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” Smith said.

He stood up and headed for the front door.

The temperature had dropped further still when he went outside and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A few stars could be seen through the light pollution of the city. Smith lit a cigarette and looked skyward. The skies he remembered from his childhood were nothing like this, especially when they drove inland, away from the city. He remembered his mother teaching him about the constellations. She explained what each one was and what it was supposed to represent. Smith couldn’t understand why his mum had come into his head right now – it had been a very long time since he’d thought about her. He didn’t dwell on it. He finished the cigarette, and something occurred to him. He didn’t know if this was one of those light bulb moments he’d contemplated earlier. He went back inside the house to ask Whitton’s opinion about it.

She was in the kitchen with Lucy and Darren. They were all laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Smith said.

“You wouldn’t get it,” Lucy said.

“Thanks,” Smith said and turned to Whitton. “Can I have a word?”

She nodded and followed him to the living room.

“I think I know who this woman is,” Smith said.

“What woman?”
“The psychotic Creed bitch,” Smith said. “Who else? I think it’s the woman who told us her name was Sue. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that the day after she arranges to meet us, a woman called Susan is murdered, and my number is found on her phone.”
Whitton didn’t comment. Smith could tell that the cogs were turning inside her head.

“You could be onto something there,” she said eventually.

“It makes sense,” Smith said. “She calls me to arrange a meeting – she spins us a bullshit story about how petrified she is then when I try to get hold of her, she conveniently ignores the calls. If she’s so terrified, why would she do that? And then the phone she used to call me from is found at the house of a woman who has been murdered. A woman who just happens to be called Susan.”
“Are you suggesting the phone was left there for us to find?”
“I am,” Smith said. “When you think about it, it was too easy. How many people have no security on their phones these days? There was no password required, and it wasn’t fingerprint protected. She wanted us to get into that phone quickly.”

“If you’re right,” Whitton said. “How does it actually help us? We still don’t know who she is, and my memory of her is pretty vague. She was a short woman with brown hair. I doubt I’d even be able to work with a police artist to come up with a likeness – she was a nondescript woman.”
“We don’t need to work with a police artist,” Smith said. “The Hog’s Head has CCTV. Marge installed the cameras a few years ago.”

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Smith knew it was going to be one of those days before he even made his first cup of coffee the next day. There were no fewer than six messages on his phone. The first one was from Kenny Bean. The Head of Pathology informed him that he had something to discuss, and asked if Smith could spare an hour or two to come and see him at the hospital. Smith replied in the affirmative. He would make time – when Dr Bean said he had something to discuss, Smith knew it was important.

The second message was a general WhatsApp from Laura and Fran’s school reminding parents that today was the first day of the new term. Smith wondered if this was really necessary. Surely any parent worth their salt would have been counting down the days to when they could offload their offspring again after the long summer break.

The next message was from Dr Vennell. The pretty psychologist was telling him that she would do everything she could to help Fran’s cause. She added two kisses to the message. Smith replied to tell her he appreciated what she was doing and after a brief internal debate he added a single X. He regretted it as soon as he’d sent the message.

There was a short message from DI Smyth, replying to the one Smith had sent before he went to bed last night. Smith had told him he would be late into work today. He wanted to see if the CCTV from the Hog’s Head could help them with an ID for the woman who’d called herself Sue. Smith had also told the DI that he hoped the evening with the hypnotist had gone well to which DI Smyth had told him it was none of his business.

“Fair enough,” Smith spoke the words out loud.

The fifth message was to tell him his car insurance was due for renewal. Smith skipped past that one and opened the last one. It was a number not in his list of contacts and Smith had to read it twice to understand who had sent it.

The Creed is more powerful than you.

Even though he’d barely wiped the sleep out of his eyes, Smith was awake enough to realise who the message was from. He forwarded the message to DI Smyth and explained his suspicions. He knew the DI would make sure the message ended up in the hands of someone who knew what to do with it.

It was going to be a taxing day and the noise of the two bickering girls coming downstairs told Smith it wasn’t about to get any better. Laura and Fran came into the kitchen and both of them spoke at the same time.

“Fran took my school sweater,” Laura said.

Fran told him something similar.

“You’re wearing mine,” Laura insisted.

“Who cares?” Smith said. “They’re both exactly the same.”
“They’re not,” Laura said. “Mine feels different.”

Whitton came in. “What’s going on?”

“She’s got the wrong sweater,” Laura said.

“What does it matter?” Smith said. “Life is far too short for this shit.”
Whitton glared at him. She examined the label in Laura’s school sweater and sighed.

“This is yours, sweetheart. I wrote your names on the labels.”
Laura didn’t believe her. She removed the jumper and checked for herself. Fran did the same.

“Can I wear yours today?” Laura said.

Fran nodded. The girls exchanged jumpers and left the room.

“What the hell was that all about?” Smith said.

He finished his coffee and switched on the kettle to make another cup.

“They’re excited about going back to school,” Whitton said.

“Well, I could have done without it today of all days. We’ve got a bucketload of work to get through.”

He told her about the messages that he’d woken up to.

“I want to go and see what Kenny has to tell me. But I said I’d leave my car here for Darren in case we can’t get back for Fran’s appointment. And I want to go and see Marge about the CCTV footage from Sunday.”

“You’re not the only detective on the team,” Whitton reminded him. “Bridge and Harry can handle the Hog’s Head. I’ll come with you to the hospital. What do you think Kenny wants to tell you?”
“Something important,” Smith said.

The doorbell rang and Smith sighed. “What now?”
“I’ll get it,” Whitton said.

She left the room and returned with Lucy.

“Why did you ring the bell?” Smith said.

“It seemed like the right thing to do,” Lucy said. “You always knock before you come next door.”
“That’s because I was ordered to do so. You don’t have to do that here. Is something wrong?”
“I’m taking the girls to school remember.”
“Oh right.”
“I’ve got a lot of stuff to take with me to college for the first day back,” Lucy said. “Can we borrow your car for a bit? We’ll drop Laura and Fran off on the way.”
“What about Andrew?” Whitton said.

Right on cue the front door opened, and Darren Lewis came in with Andrew in his arms.

Smith knew what was coming next. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”
“It’s only for half an hour or so,” Lucy said.

“Bullshit,” Smith said. “There is no chance in hell you’ll be back in thirty minutes. It’s the first day of the new school term and roads will be jampacked with lazy bastard parents who’ve forgotten how to do the school run.”
“We’ll be quick,” Darren promised.

“And what have I told you about your language in front of Andrew?” Lucy said.

“Do you want to borrow my car or not?” Smith said.

“She’s got a point,” Whitton said. “You swear far too much.”
“Fuck this,” Smith said under his breath. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

He opened the back door and went outside to the back garden.

“I heard that,” Lucy called after him.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Ninety minutes later Smith and Whitton were standing outside Dr Bean’s office at the hospital. Lucy’s half-an-hour had been optimistic. Smith was right – the streets of York were full of parents transporting their children to school. Bridge and DC Moore had already been and gone to the Hog’s Head – they now had the CCTV footage from Sunday evening, and they would go through it back at the station.

Smith knocked on the door and went into the office without being invited. Dr Bean would expect nothing less. Whitton followed him in.

“Kenny,” Smith walked over to the desk. “It’s been a while.”
Dr Bean stood up and shook Smith’s hand. “It has that. Take a seat. I hope he’s been behaving himself.”
This was addressed to Whitton.

“As well as can be expected,” she said.

“What have you got for us?” Smith said.

“A big fat mess,” Dr Bean said. “You lot don’t like to make it easy for us, do you?”
“I don’t ask the psychos to commit murder.”

The door opened and a woman came into the office. Smith remembered her from a previous investigation.

“What is it, Sarah?” Dr Bean said.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But I thought you would want to see these straight away. It’s the tox reports for the three men brought in earlier in the week, as well as the recent ones.”

“Anything interesting to report?”

“Have a look for yourself.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Dr Bean said.

“How’s she doing?” Smith asked.

“Are you asking if she’s recovered from the most traumatic experience of her life?” Dr Bean said. “I don’t think she’ll ever forget it, but it comes with the territory.”
He left it at that, and Smith didn’t press further.

“I found something peculiar with your husband and wife,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t like to personalise them,” Smith reminded him.

“People change. The woman perished due to a single wound to her neck. Dead centre. It pierced the trachea, and she will have suffocated in a matter of minutes. There was another, more superficial wound to her right hand which I believe was defensive.”
“She tried to fight him off,” Whitton said.

“Indeed she did,” Dr Bean said. “I’ve spoken to Forensics and there is no doubt that the woman died inside their house. Webber found a lot of blood on the floor in the kitchen and the weapon used to kill her was retrieved. It was a common steak knife – the kind you can buy at any homeware store. The crude amputation of the finger was carried out using the same knife. I believe whoever performed the surgery will have had to have used a sawing motion. It won’t have been an easy task.”
“Was the amputation carried out at home too?” Whitton said.

Dr Bean nodded. “You’re not a squeamish woman then?”
“I’ve given birth,” Whitton said. “And I’ve lived with him for over a decade, so not much fazes me anymore.”
Dr Bean laughed. “Good answer.”

He cast a glance at the report Sarah Monk had brought in.

“Hmm.”

“What is it?” Smith said.

“Let’s discuss the husband first,” Dr Bean said.

He went on to tell them that Paul Applegate died due to a knife wound to his heart. It would have been an almost instant death. But that wasn’t what he found interesting. The wound in his chest wasn’t the only injury he sustained. There was bruising on his face and on the back of his head, and when he was examined more closely there was evidence of prior injuries.

“A lot of prior injuries,” Dr Bean said. “Did the husband have a physical job?”
“No,” Smith said. “He worked at the petrol station at the Travelodge on the A64.”
“We found extensive bruising to his chest and back,” Dr Bean said. “These were inflicted weeks ago. There was also scarring on his lower neck which appeared to be burn scars.”
“The next-door-neighbour suspected that his wife knocked him about,” Smith said.

“That’s a rather crude way of putting it,” Dr Bean said. “But I’m inclined to think the same.”

“How come there was still bruising weeks later?” Whitton said. “I thought bruises faded after a few days?”
“On the surface, yes but it can take weeks, even months for the evidence of the trauma to fade beneath the skin. And this evidence is more obvious on a cadaver. The husband had evidence of past hematoma synonymous with what you might find on the body of a boxer after a fight.”
“He was beaten badly then?” Smith said.

“He was.”

“What’s in there?” Smith nodded to the report on the desk. “Tox reports?”

“It’s standard procedure,” Dr Bean said. “I ran some tests on all of the bodies that were brought in. Hold on…”
He picked up the report.

“George Leith, Jonathan Peterson and Alan Zane. Something didn’t quite add up with those three.”
“It never does,” Smith said.

“I don’t presume to know how to do your job,” Dr Bean said. “But I like to keep abreast of the circumstances surrounding what brought someone to the metal table in the first place.”
“Since when?”
“People can change. I gleaned from Forensics that the whereabouts of where these men met their end is, as yet unknown. They were rendered deceased and taken somewhere else to be discovered. The injuries inflicted to all of them were severe and I believe it will have been impossible to carry that out in a public place. They were taken somewhere for the sole purpose of ending their lives, and when I considered the height and build of all three, I wondered if they could have been given something to make it easier to get them there.”
“They were drugged, weren’t they?” Smith said.

“It appears so,” Dr Bean said. “All three had large quantities of sedative in their system. Benzodiazepine to be more precise.”

“You sent me the message before you had the tox report back,” Smith said.

“Well spotted,” Dr Bean said.

“How could you be so sure?”
“How can you be so sure that someone is lying to you? Sometimes you just know, don’t you?”
“And I bet that your assistant delivering the report as soon as we’d entered the office was just a coincidence?”
“Coincidences do happen.”
“Bullshit,” Smith said. “You just wanted a bit of drama, didn’t you? I’m not going to hold it against you.”
“I assure you that I did no such thing.”

“OK,” Smith said. “Like you said, sometimes you just know, don’t you?”

“Do you have anything else for us?” Whitton asked. “As much as I’ve enjoyed listening to your playful banter, we have a lot of work to get through.”
“Is she always this serious?” Dr Bean asked Smith.

“One of us has to be,” Whitton replied for him.

“As a matter of fact, there is something you might want to consider,” Dr Bean said.

“I’m all ears,” Smith said.

“It’s all in there.”
Dr Bean handed him the tox report. Smith picked it up and leafed through it.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“There was no trace of sedative in any of the other cadavers,” Dr Bean said.

“They were already where the killer wanted them when they were murdered.” Whitton got there first.

Smith looked at her and nodded.

“They had no idea they were going to die, did they?”

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

The drive from the hospital to the station wasn’t a long one but it was sufficient for Smith to process what Kenny Bean had told them. George Leith, Alan Zane and Jonathan Peterson had all been drugged with benzodiazepine before they were taken to their places of execution. It made sense and the more Smith thought about it the more he became convinced that the venue for the Creed meetings was going to be difficult to locate. The woman in charge got the victims to where she knew that nothing could go wrong. The victims were dispatched during the meetings and disposed of. Then they were put out with the trash in various parts of the city.

Brian Colton had no sedatives in his system because it wasn’t necessary. He was already where the Creed woman wanted him – he was attending one of the meetings. Smith guessed that this was the case with Susan Landon too. She must have done something that was against the rules of the Creed and she had to pay for it.

The biggest epiphany came with the case of Paul and Rita Applegate. The evidence from the postmortem suggested that Paul had been a victim of abuse for a very long time and Smith wondered if he’d simply cracked one night. Enough was enough and he’d killed his wife without the Creed’s consent. This was obviously not allowed too, and he had to pay the ultimate price. It all made sense when he recalled what the next-door-neighbour had told them about a nocturnal visitor. Someone had come to clean up after him. They removed the bodies and left them in the bins at the Holiday Inn.

“How did they know?”

Whitton slowed down. “How did who know?”
“Paul and Rita Applegate,” Smith said. “The neighbour said he saw someone loading something into a van the night they died. It has to have been their bodies he was loading, but how did they know? How did the Creed woman know Paul had taken it upon himself to kill his wife without the consent of the Creed?”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Whitton agreed.

“I can think of only one explanation,” Smith said. “Paul panicked.”
“Are you saying he contacted another member of the Creed?”
“I am.”
“Why did they kill him too?”
“Because this Creed bollocks is sacred to them,” Smith said. “And anyone who disobeys its nonsense has to pay. Paul had no idea what he was getting himself into when he called out for help. Hold on.”
     Without explanation he took out his phone and brought up Grant Webber’s number.

“Smith,” the Head of Forensics said. “What can I do for you?”
“Did you find a mobile phone at the house belonging to Paul and Rita Applegate?”
“We did, yes.”
“Where is it?” Smith said.

“Still in evidence I assume.”
“Make it a priority.”
“Can I ask why?”

“Paul called for help after he’d killed his wife,” Smith explained. “It’s the only explanation for the van getting there so quickly.”
“Van?”
This was news to Webber.

“A white van was seen outside the house the night of the murder. A witness saw a man loading something into the back and I think it was Mr and Mrs Applegate who were being loaded into it.”
“I’ll ask Billie to take a look through the phone.”
“Make it a priority,” Smith said once more.

“Yes, boss,” Webber said and ended the call.

“We’re getting somewhere,” Smith said. “She was bound to fuck up sooner or later and I think this is that time. I need a cigarette.”
“Not in my car you don’t. We’ll be at the station in five minutes.”

“We need a holiday,” Smith said.

“Where did that come from?”

“We haven’t had a break away from this city since Australia,” Smith said. “Don’t you think it would be nice to get away for a bit?”
“The timing is terrible. The girls have just gone back to school and Lucy is back at college.”
“Who said anything about them?” Smith said.

“We can’t just leave them behind.”
“Why not? We can go away, just the two of us.”
“The adoption agency will love that,” Whitton said.

“Fuck the adoption agency. Your parents will help out, and now Darren is a full-time househusband we can abuse it. At least think about it.”
“It’s just not practical right now.”

Smith’s phone started to ring.

“It’s the boss,” he told Whitton.

“Where are you?” DI Smyth said.

“Three minutes away,” Smith said. “Kenny found something important.”
“We’ll discuss that later. I’m going to ping over an address.”
“You’re going to do what?”

“Send you an address.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?” Smith said.

“Shut up and listen. The CCTV from the Hog’s Head was useless. It looks like the woman who called herself Sue was aware of the cameras, and she made sure she wasn’t caught on either of them.”
“Shit,” Smith said. “It was me who chose the location. How could she know something like that?”
“It’s not important. The CCTV is a dead end, but the man who lives at the address I’m about to send you might not be. Bridge recommended him. He’s an IT expert and his name is Barry Stone.”
Smith vaguely remembered him. “The fat bloke?”
“He thinks he might have something worth looking at,” DI Smyth said. “It’s someone who was an active subscriber to Porter’s hypnotism tutorials. It’s a woman and Barry has managed to access her social media. You and Whitton are the only people who have actually met the woman, so it’s worth a shot.”
“We’ll head straight there,” Smith said. “And boss?”
“What?”
“It’s Porter now, is it? First name basis already.”
“I’ll ping the address over now.”

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

Smith barely recognised Bridge’s old friend when Barry Stone opened the door. He looked to have lost at least four stone since Smith last saw him.

“Barry?”
“That’s me.”
“I didn’t recognise you without the belly,” Smith said.

“Doctor’s orders,” Barry said. “It was either the pies and an early grave or healthy food and a good few years left to live. I chose the latter. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too. You’ve met DS Whitton, haven’t you?”
“We have,” Whitton said. “What have you got for us?”
“Come in. You’ll have to excuse the mess.”
     He led them to the living room. Smith couldn’t find any mess anywhere.
“I was being sarcastic,” Barry said. “Linda likes to keep a clean house. Linda’s my wife – we got married during the first lockdown last year. I figured it was a good way to keep costs down – no guests allowed. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Smith said.

Barry got straight to work. On the far wall was a desk that took up the whole length of it. Three laptops stood side by side. Barry flipped open the one in the centre.

“This lot is going to have to be moved,” he said. “Linda’s orders. I’ll set myself up in the spare room until I’m told otherwise. Does your wife like to move stuff around at home?”

“I don’t actually,” Whitton said.

Barry started at her for a moment. “I’m sorry – I forgot about that.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m still making the adjustment from single bloke to married man. It’s going to take a while.”

“It takes a lot longer than that,” Smith told him.

“Your hypnotist friend wasn’t fazed by abuse I see,” Barry said.

“You’ve lost me there,” Smith said.

“What I usually see with YouTube guys is their security settings are verging on paranoid. The stuff your friend posted was as public as it can get. Same on his podcasts. Must have a thick skin.”
“I don’t know much about it,” Smith said.

“I won’t bore you with the details,” Barry said.

“I’d like to know.”
“You stick something on YouTube,” Barry said. “You can either set it to subscription only or accessible to anyone.”
“Don’t you need an account?”
“Not really. Anyway, some people don’t care about the trolls – they want their content to be available to as many people as possible so they leave it wide open. Your hypnotist was one of these YouTubers.”
“Surely YouTube doesn’t tolerate venomous comments,” Whitton said.

“Of course not,” Barry said. “But the people vetting the comments aren’t actual people. For the same reason AI will never be able to pen even a half-decent novel – the measures put in place to police the comments on YouTube are inadequate. Artificial intelligence cannot interpret nuances and subtleties in language, and often trolls get away with it. I’m getting side-tracked. This AI nonsense is a particular bane of mine.”

He turned his attention to the screen of the laptop.

“What you have here is a whole load of comments, which to the untrained eye look like precisely that.”
“But not to an expert?” Smith said.

“I wouldn’t consider myself an expert. This is one of your hypnotist’s early attempts, and to use the technical term, it’s shite.”
“I understand that term,” Smith said.

“A bloke who looks like something out of Open University droning on and on is enough to put anyone to sleep.”
“He is a hypnotist,” Whitton reminded him.”

“Good one,” Barry said. “The comments on here are far from riveting too. A few people telling him to speak up – a couple of yawns, and this one.”
His finger tapped the screen.”

“Where do I find more of these?” Smith read.

“Which in itself isn’t unusual,” Barry said. “This is a post six months later, and it’s clear from the content and the comments that your man has improved. He’s gone from single figure subscribers to almost six hundred. The percentage of positive comments has grown too. And here’s the same subscriber again.”
“Hope1234,” Whitton said.

“Why don’t people use their real names?” Smith wondered.

“All kinds of reasons,” Barry said. “They want to remain anonymous – they want to do their trolling under a cloak of darkness, or they want to keep their identities hidden from people like you.”
     Smith thought hard about this and the harder he thought the more confused he became. He was well aware that so-called cyber-crime was on the increase, but he also knew that unless the person committing the crime was very good at it, there would always be someone better. In a perfect world those with more expertise would be on the side of the law, but in reality, it never quite worked out like that.

“The boss said you had some pics for us to look at,” he said.

“I’m getting to that,” Barry said. “I know you’re snowed under. I did a cross search with social media for someone with a similar username, and I think I came up with a couple of possibles. One is a woman who goes under the username of Hopeless666 on Twitter. That’s as far as I got with that one. She’s posted no photos that can give me any idea where she resides. She could be in Kathmandu for all we know.”
“How do you know she’s a woman?” Smith asked.

“Because of the nature of her posts. All men need castrating at birth, stuff like that.”

“It does sound like something a woman would post,” Smith agreed.

“The other possible one is someone who calls herself HOPE1 on Twitter and SoSueMe on Facebook.”

“Sue?” Smith said and looked at Whitton.

“It’s quite a clever play on words,” Barry said. “Now, this might not be your woman, but little Miss Sue Me has posted quite a bit about hypnotism on her Facebook page. And, if she thought she was going to remain anonymous she’s got another think coming. There’s one photograph of her – it’s the one I’m about to show you, and it was taken in front of a rather famous building.”
     He clicked the link he’d downloaded, and the photograph filled the screen. The building in the background was indeed famous, and Smith had lost count of how many times he’d walked past it. The spires of the Minster were unmistakable. A short woman with brown hair was looking directly at the camera. Even with the sunglasses obscuring her eyes, Smith knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the woman on the screen was his psycho Creed bitch.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

“There is a bit of bad news,” Smith said back in the briefing room.

“Barry Stone doesn’t think there’s any way we can find out who she is.”
“Does anybody recognise her?” DI Smyth asked.

The face of the woman who Smith was positive was responsible for the recent murders filled the huge screen at the back of the room, and the silence that followed told a story of its own.

Bridge was the first to find his voice. “She’s very average looking.”

“It’s definitely the same woman we met at the Hog’s Head,” Whitton said.

“Why did she arrange that meeting?” Bridge said. “It was a bit risky, wasn’t it?”
“No,” Smith said. “It wasn’t risky at all. At that stage we knew nothing about why those people were murdered. We had no idea it was all about the Creed. Why would we even suspect that we were eating out with the woman behind it? In hindsight it strikes me that she gets a kick out of controlling the narrative and I reckon if we were to construct a psychological profile of her, we’d see a control freak and possibly a narcissist. She needs that feeling of power and I’m starting to think that this is what’s at the heart of all this. She doesn’t do it because she believes in the word of the Creed – she does it because she gets off on making other people believe in it.”

“Are you quite finished?” DI Smyth said.

“Boss?” Smith said.

“That was quite a speech.”
“I got a bit carried away,” Smith said. “But I reckon I’m right.”
“So do I,” DC King said. “The Creed is like a religion and look how many people believe in all the gods out there. If an alien landed on earth and you handed him The Bible, the Koran and all the other religious texts, and told him that there were billions of people who believed the words to be the truth, he’d be off to look for another planet to live on in a flash. It’s incredible how people can be manipulated into believing anything if it’s done in a certain way.”
“Let’s not get into a discussion about organised religion,” DI Smyth said.

“Kerry’s right though,” Smith said. “Human beings are pliable. It’s easy to mould them into whatever you want them to be if you choose the right victims and you know what you’re doing. All of the members of the Creed were chosen for a particular reason – they’d all suffered abuse. They were chosen extremely carefully, and they were easily brainwashed.”
“How do we find this woman?” DC Moore joined in.

“She’s going to carry on killing,” Smith said. “And she’s going to make a mistake.”
“Are you saying we just sit around and wait for that to happen?” Bridge said.

“Do you have any other suggestions?”

“What if we put out her photo?” DC King suggested.

“I thought we wanted to keep the press out of this,” DC Moore said.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Smith said. “We don’t need to elaborate on why we’re looking for her.”
“We’ll have to give them something,” DI Smyth said.

“Then we make something up. I’m not a big fan of the press, and I couldn’t give a hoot if they believe the reason we’re looking for her is a lie. The bodies are piling up and it calls for desperate measures.”
“The locals have already latched onto the murders,” Bridge said. “And it’s only a matter of time before the Nationals follow suit.”

“We need to have a press conference,” Smith said.

All eyes turned to him.

“You hate press conferences,” Whitton reminded him.

“I didn’t say I wanted to be the face of it.”
“Who did you have in mind?” DI Smyth said.

“Uncle Jeremy. I reckon this is right up his alley.”
“I hate to admit it,” DI Smyth said. “But you could be right, and it’s Superintendent Smyth to you.”

“Do you want to tell him or should I?”
“I think it would be better coming from me.”

Smith’s phone started to ring. The ringtone told him it was Grant Webber.

“Give me some good news.”
Smith didn’t bother with any pleasantries. He put the phone on speakerphone.

“That’s yet to be decided,” Webber said. “We managed to get into the phone retrieved from Paul and Rita Applegate’s place.”
“That was quick,” Smith said.

“No password,” Webber said. “And it wasn’t fingerprint protected either.”
“Sounds suspicious to me.”
“I thought so too,” Webber said. “But it made it easier for us to go through the call log. On Monday evening just after seven there was an outgoing call. It was the last one ever made on the phone.”
“It has to be when he called for help,” Smith said.

“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
“Who did he call?”

“It wasn’t a number in his list of contacts,” Webber said. “But it is a number that has come up during the course of the investigation.”
“Do we know whose number it is?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s the number of the phone that sent you the message in the early hours of this morning.”
“The Creed is more powerful than you,” Smith remembered. “Can you trace it?”
“If we could it would have been the first thing I told you.”
“Fuck it,” Smith said. “It’s a burner, isn’t it?”
“I detest that term,” Webber said. “But yes, it is a pre-paid sim that we won’t be able to trace. In fact, the number doesn’t even exist anymore, so it looks like the sim has been destroyed. That’s all I can tell you.”

“She’s fucking with us,” Smith said when Webber had ended the call.

“It was too easy,” Whitton said. “That’s two phones we’ve come across that had no security measures in place. That doesn’t happen these days.”

DC Moore rubbed his eyes and frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“What’s on your mind, Harry?” DI Smyth said.

“Let’s assume that the phones were left wide open on purpose,” DC Moore said. “It makes sense with the phone found at Susan Landon’s place. That phone was planted there, but the phone found at the Applegate house belonged to Paul, and I doubt he would have zero security in place. I think whoever was sent to remove the bodies changed the security settings before they left.”
“So?” Bridge said. “How does that help us?”
“Prints,” Smith said. “Whoever did that will have left their prints all over that phone.”

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

“The Super said he’ll be delighted to head up the press conference,” DI Smyth told Smith in the canteen.

“I thought he might say that,” Smith said. “Does he know what’s expected of him?”
“PC Walker is talking him through it as we speak. The woman is a person of extreme interest in the current murder investigation. She is believed to be extremely dangerous, and she is not to be approached. If anybody has any information… Same old guff.”
“I suppose even Uncle Jeremy can’t fuck that up. Have we got anything back from the Applegate phone?”
“Nothing yet,” DI Smyth said. “Webber will let us know if he finds anything.”
“What now, boss?”

“We go back,” DI Smyth said. “We’ve missed something somewhere down the line and I want to try to see if we can find out what it is.”

“Jemma Watkins,” Smith said.

“What?” DI Smyth said.

“She was one of the first people we spoke to. She was in an abusive relationship with the first victim, and her eyes were devoid of life. It was quite noticeable – she had dead eyes.”
“Are you suggesting she’s the woman behind the Creed?”
“No,” Smith said. “I would have recognised her when we met at the Hog’s Head.”
“How does she tie in with this then?” DI Smyth said. “If she isn’t the woman who called herself Sue, then how does she fit?”
“I don’t know, boss. I’m just going back over the past few days like you suggested. I’ve learned from past experience that it’s often the people we speak to in the initial stages of an investigation who are vital to bringing it to its conclusion. I think it might be worth speaking to Jemma again.”
“Why?” DI Smyth said. “You said yourself that she’s not the woman you met at the Hog’s Head.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s not involved somehow. The Creed bitch isn’t working alone.”
“When you first spoke to Jemma,” DI Smyth said. “Did she have an alibi for the time of George Leith’s murder?”
“She did. Her fiancé had a few friends round and she was home all night.”
“She could have been lying. Did you check it out?”
“I didn’t,” Smith said. “And that’s all the more reason to pay her another visit. I’ve got a feeling in my gut that’s telling me that the person we’re looking for is someone we’ve already encountered.”
“The famous Smith gut instinct?”
“It’s rarely let me down in the past.”
“No,” DI Smyth sighed. “No, it hasn’t. It’s worth a shot. It’s getting late, so make it the last thing on the agenda today.”
“Shit,” Smith said. “What time is it?”

“Just gone five.”
Smith remembered Fran’s appointment. He wondered how it was going.

* * *

It wasn’t going well at all. Fran had been in Dr Vennell’s office for fifteen minutes and the only progress the psychologist had made was to ascertain that Fran preferred water to Coke.

“Fran,” Dr Vennell said. “That’s a pretty name. Is it short for Frances?”
“Francesca,” Fran told her.

“That’s even prettier. Your mum had great taste in names. Do you want to tell me about her?”
She received a shrug of the shoulders in reply.

“Do you like living with Jason, Erica and Laura?”

This time Fran nodded.

“What do you like about it?”

“I like Lucy too,” Fran said.

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about her. She sounds lovely. Do you talk to her a lot?”
Another nod.

“What do you talk about? Perhaps we can talk about the same things you and Lucy talk about.”
A moment of silence passed, and Fran looked Dr Vennell in the eyes.

“A bad person killed her dad.”
“I know,” Dr Vennell said. “Jason told me about it. Unfortunately, there are some bad people out there, but Jason and Erica are there to stop them. Do you like living with two police officers?”
“It’s nice.”

“Did I tell you that this is being recorded?”
The question was received with a frown.

“It’s like what Jason and Erica do,” Dr Vennell said. “When they talk to people at the police station, they record it. They have an important job to do. Can you tell me a bit more about your mum?”
“She gave the best cuddles.”
“That’s what mums are good at.”

“Mr Smith doesn’t like cuddles.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because it makes him cry,” Fran said.

Dr Vennell wasn’t expecting this.

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like cuddles,” she said. “In fact, it probably means he likes them a lot.”
“You don’t cry when you like something a lot,” Fran said.

“Some people do. Tell me about Laura.”
“She’s my best friend,” Fran said.

“It’s nice to have a best friend.”
“We fight sometimes.”
“That’s because you’re best friends,” Dr Vennell said. “It’s normal. Do Jason and Erica fight at all?”
She knew that this was a risky question, but she needed to ask it.

“They do fight sometimes,” Fran said. “But it’s not proper fighting – it’s funny mostly.”
“I know what you mean. Why don’t you like Coke? I don’t know many girls your age who prefer water.”
“My mum said it’s bad for my teeth,” Fran said. “Water is better for you.”
“You’re right about that. Do you want to talk about what happened to your mum?”
Fran shook her head.

“That’s OK,” Dr Vennell said. “You don’t have to.”
“I talk to Lucy about her.”
“That’s OK too. Do you get on with her boyfriend?”
“Darren’s great,” Fran said. “He takes us to the park. Andrew comes too.”
“That’s their baby?”
“He’s naughty.”
“That’s normal for a baby.”
“Darren lets me, and Laura watch new films,” Fran said. “He does something on his computer that means we can watch them before our friends do.”
“That must be cool,” Dr Vennell said.

If slightly illegal, she thought.

She decided that she wasn’t going to mention this in her report.

“Look at the time,” she said. “We’re almost finished.”

“Am I going to have to live with another family?” Fran said.

“I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” Dr Vennell told her. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve learned enough to see that Jason and Erica are the best people to take care of you. I’m going to tell the people who decide these things exactly that.”
“You can’t have been doing it for a long time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re too young,” Fran said.

“I’m older than I look.”
“You’re pretty.”
“Thank you,” Dr Vennell said. “You’re pretty too. Is there anything you’d like to talk about before we finish up?”
     The subtle shake of the head told her that Fran wasn’t going to say anything else. It didn’t matter – Dr Vennell was convinced that the contents of the report that she was going to send to the adoption agency would all but ensure that Fran Rogers remained a permanent member of the Smith family.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Jemma Watkins looked surprised to see Smith and Whitton on her doorstep.

Smith had planned to go on his own until he remembered that he’d left his car at home so Darren could take Fran to her appointment with Dr Vennell.

“What do you want?”
“Just a quick chat,” he said. “Can we come in?”

“Kevin Junior is having his tea,” Jemma said.

“It won’t take long,” Smith said. “We just want to ask you a few more questions.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Actually you do,” Smith said. “It really won’t take long.”
“You’d better come in then.”

She told them to take a seat in the living room while she went to see if her fiancé needed any help with the baby. Smith and Whitton made themselves comfortable on the sofa. Jemma came in shortly afterwards.

“Our Kev has it sorted. Luckily little Kevin is a good eater. What is it you want to know?”

“When we spoke on Sunday,” Smith said. “You said you had a few people around on Saturday night.”
“That’s right,” Jemma said. “A few of Kev’s mates came over to celebrate the win in the football.”
“And you stayed home all night?” Whitton said.
“That’s right. Someone had to make sure they didn’t make too much noise.”
“I’m going to need a list of the people who were here,” Smith said. “As well as their contact details.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“It’s standard procedure,” Smith said. “I should have got their details when we spoke on Sunday.”
“If it’s standard procedure,” Jemma said. “Why didn’t you get their names then? Has something happened?”
“Like I said, I should have done it on Sunday.”

Kevin came in with the baby. He handed him to Jemma and she skilfully extracted a belch in seconds.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Kevin said. “For the life of me I can’t seem to get his wind up. What are you really doing here?”

This was aimed at Smith.

“We’re just following up on a few things,” Smith said.

“He wants a list of everybody who was here on Saturday night,” Jemma told him.

“What for?” Kevin said,

“He doesn’t believe I was here all night.”
“Are you calling our Jemma a liar?” Kevin said. “She was here all night. You’ve got my word on that or is my word not good enough?”
“I think it is,” Smith said. “But it’s not me who makes the rules.”
“I’ll make a list then,” Kevin said.

“If Jemma was here all night, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Jemma said.

Smith wasn’t expecting this.

“No thanks,” he said. “If you could just get me those contact details, we’ll get out of your hair.”

Kevin took out his phone and found what he was looking for. He wrote the details on a notepad, ripped off the page and handed it to Smith.

“How old is he?” Whitton asked and pointed to the baby.

“Nine months,” Jemma said.

“He’s big for his age.”
“Everybody says that,” Kevin said. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I think we’ve covered everything,” Smith said.

Something occurred to him.

“Have you ever heard of something called The Creed?” he asked Jemma.

If this ignited a spark of recognition, it didn’t reveal itself on her face.

“The Creed?” she said. “Never heard of it.”
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Whitton said.

“Why are you asking about a creed?” Jemma said.

“DS Smith has a unique mind,” Whitton told her. “Sometimes he just comes out with stuff like that. You get used to it after a while. Thank you for your time.”

She headed for the door. Smith followed her and stopped when he was halfway there. A photograph on the wall caught his attention. Three teenage girls were standing in front of an old building. Smith recognised one of them – it was a much younger Jemma Watkins. The other two girls looked very similar in age and Smith wondered if they were twins.

“Where is this?” he asked. “That building looks familiar.”
“It’s Whitby Abbey,” Jemma said. “It was about ten years ago.”
“Who are the other girls?”

“Tanya and Natalie,” Jemma said. “My sisters.”

“It’s a great photo,” Smith said.

His phone started to ring as soon as he set foot outside. The screen told him it was Dr Vennell. Smith told Whitton as much.

“Ignore it,” she said.

“It might be important. She’s probably calling to tell me how the appointment with Fran went.”

He walked away and answered the call.

“How did it go?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Dr Vennell said.

“Sorry,” Smith said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“When don’t you have a lot on your mind? The chat with your little girl went better than I expected. It was slow going at first, but she opened up after a while and I will be putting nothing but positive things in my report. I’d say it’s safe to say that the adoption agency have no option but to recommend that Fran remains where she is. I’ll make it clear in my report that I can see nothing to suggest that it would be beneficial to move her.”
“Thank you,” Smith said. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m not finished. I’ve booked at table for two at the new Italian place on Hull Road. You will be there at seven sharp.”
“It’s a bit short notice,” Smith said.

“And I stuck my neck out for you today.”

Smith glanced at Whitton, sitting inside her car.

“OK,” he said. “Seven it is then, but on one condition.”
“You don’t get to dictate conditions now,” Dr Vennell said.

“Humour me.”
“What is it?”
“Change the booking,” Smith said. “Make it a table for three.”

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

“I don’t know why I even agreed to this,” Whitton said.

She’d had a quick shower, and she was getting dressed in the bedroom.

“I can’t think of anything worse than having to spend an evening with your other woman.”
“Come on,” Smith said. “She’s done us a huge favour. We were this close to losing Fran and now it looks like she’ll be able to stay with us.”
“I really could have done without this tonight. I’m knackered. What do you think – the black one or the dark blue one?”
She held up two jumpers for his opinion.

“You’re asking me?”

“I give up. I reckon the black one is more suitable for tonight.”
“I’m going next door to see if the girls are OK,” Smith said. “I prefer the black one too.”
     Laura and Fran were hogging the television again. Lucy was reading a book in the same room, oblivious to the din that was coming from the speakers.

“What are you reading?” Smith asked her.

She showed him.

“Ring who?” he said.

“Ring Lardner,” Lucy said. “He’s probably the greatest American short story writer.”

“Is that on your syllabus this year?”

“Hardly,” Lucy said. “The books I have to read are not what I would have chosen. I’ve never liked Dickens and Jane Austen bores the crap out of me. I’m reading this for distraction’s sake.”
“Where’s Darren?”
“He’s putting Andrew to bed upstairs.”
“It must be nice to have a house-husband.”
“Will you stop calling him that?”
“I’ll let you get back to your book,” Smith said. “Thanks for looking after the girls.”
Lucy laughed. “They hardly need any looking after. As long as they can watch TV, they’re fine.”
“Don’t let them stay up too late.”
“Yes, boss,” Lucy said. “Have a nice time.”
     Smith went back next door and made his way through the kitchen and out to the back garden to smoke a quick cigarette before they had to leave for the restaurant. His thoughts turned to Jemma Watkins. He didn’t think there was anything that linked her to the Creed, but something was bothering him about her, nonetheless. Halfway down the cigarette he realised what it was. It was her eyes – her eyes were different. When he and DC King had spoken to her on Sunday both of them had noticed the lack of emotion in them. They really were dead eyes, but there had been a spark in them earlier, and Smith couldn’t understand why this was niggling away at his insides. He finished the cigarette and went back inside. The beep from his phone told him the taxi had arrived, and he pushed all thoughts of Jemma’s eyes from his mind.

* * *

Dr Vennell was already seated when Smith and Whitton got to the restaurant. True to her word she’d organised a table for three and when Smith looked around the restaurant, he wondered how she’d managed it at such short notice. Even though it was still relatively early, most of the tables were occupied. They made their way to the table and sat down.

“This place looks fancy,” Smith said.

“Looks can be deceptive,” Dr Vennell said and turned to Whitton. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too,” Whitton managed.

“Thanks for what you’ve done for Fran,” Smith said. “You said it was hard going at first.”
“Let’s order some drinks before we start getting into a serious conversation,” Whitton suggested. “I could do with one.”

The restaurant didn’t stock Theakston so both Smith and Whitton settled on a beer neither of them had heard of before. They asked the waiter to give them a moment to have a look at the menu before they ordered food.

“You’ve done a great job with that little girl,” Dr Vennell said. “I’ve treated a few children suffering from trauma and I could see very few of the normal signs that stem from it.”
“We can’t really take the credit for it,” Smith admitted. “Fran’s recovery has had more to do with Laura and Lucy.”
“Fran spoke very highly of Lucy. Darren too. She’s clearly very comfortable with them.”

“What else did she tell you?” Whitton said. “Or is it bound by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Not really,” Dr Vennell said. “She doesn’t like to talk about her mother, which is understandable given the short period of time that has passed since her mother was killed.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?” Smith said.

“It’s neither,” Dr Vennell told him. “In my experience I’ve found it more beneficial for trauma victims to work through that trauma at their own pace. You cannot force someone to talk about something like that, and I believe that doing so would do more harm than good. She’ll open up about it in time, and all you have to do is be there for her when she does.”

Smith took a small sip of the amber-coloured beer and nodded.

“This isn’t half bad.”
“It’ll do you good to try something different,” Whitton said. “And I see there’s no steak and ale pie on the menu.”
“A creature of habit, is he?” Dr Vennell said.

“A painful one.”
“Creatures of habit stand a much better chance of survival in the wild,” Smith said. “I saw a documentary about it once.”

The waiter came back, and Smith opted for the meatballs in tomato sauce.

“We had something similar last night,” Whitton reminded him.

“And it tasted delicious,” Smith said.

“I give up,” Whitton said.

She ordered an Italian fish dish that she couldn’t even pronounce. Dr Vennell chose the same.

The door to the restaurant opened and Smith looked over.

“What’s he doing here?”

It was Bridge. He was with a young, black-haired woman.

“It must be his latest victim,” Whitton said.

“That’s rather cynical, isn’t it?” Dr Vennell said.

“If you’d get to know him, you’d understand, although I wouldn’t advise getting to know Rupert Bridge.”

The door opened again, and Smith’s jaw dropped.

“What is it?” Whitton asked.

“This is all we need,” Smith said.

Whitton turned to see what he was talking about. It was Walter Plover. The anally retentive adoption agent was accompanied by a dour-faced woman. He turned around and his eyes met Smith’s.

“Shit,” Smith said. “he’s coming over.”

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

A few miles away, a man was about to make a complete fool out of himself. Superintendent Jeremy Smyth was no stranger to ridicule. In fact, his natural talent for putting his foot in his mouth had made him notorious in York and even further afield. That was probably why the large conference room was now full to the brim. Representatives of the fourth estate had come from far and wide, hoping for a faux pas or three. As far as entertainment value went, Superintendent Smyth was definitely value for money.

PC Neil Walker had briefed the Superintendent about exactly what to say and the press liaison officer was on hand to ensure that the bungling public-school buffoon stuck to the script.

“The priority is locating the woman,” PC Walker reminded him.

“I’m not deaf,” Superintendent Smyth said. “I heard you the first time.”
“The nature of the murders could lead the public to take sides with the killers, sir,” PC Walker said. “And we really do not want that. You’re to mention nothing about why the victims were killed.”
“I am not an idiot.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”

“Nothing, sir,” PC Walker said. “It’s time.”

Superintendent Smyth tapped the microphone and PC Walker cringed.

“Good evening,” the superintendent began. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll keep this brief. You will all be aware of the recent murders in the city. The detectives here have been working tirelessly to bring the people responsible to justice, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re caught, but we’re asking for your help. Neil.”
PC Walker tapped the keypad on his laptop and the photograph of the mystery woman appeared on the screen at the back of the room.

“This is a photo of a person of extreme interest in the investigation,” Superintendent Smyth said. “Someone must know who she is. She is believed to be extremely dangerous, and she must not be approached. If anybody has any information about her, I ask you to phone the number displayed on the screen.”

“There’s no number on the screen,” a man in the front row shouted.

“There should be.”
“Well, there isn’t.”
Another tap on the keypad and the telephone number appeared.

“We will have officers manning the switchboards day and night,” Superintendent Smyth said. “Someone must know who this woman is. I would like to stress that the woman is not to be approached. Call the number on the screen and we will handle it. Are there any questions?”

PC Walker looked at him and shook his head. He was specifically requested not to ask that.

Superintendent Smyth wasn’t paying attention. To him the flashes of the phone cameras were hypnotic, and he was caught in the moment. He lived for times like these, and he was going to make it linger.

“Superintendent Smyth,” a woman with a huge nose said. “Do the people of York need to be concerned?”
“Not at all,” Superintendent Smyth said.

“Are you close to making an arrest?”

“No.. I mean, yes.”
“Which one is it?” a tall man asked.

“We’re confident that, with the help of the people of York we will be able to apprehend this woman.”

“Is it true that the victims all have a history of violence?” the tall man asked. “All of them have displayed violent tendencies. Is that why they were killed?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both,” Superintendent Smyth said. “Where did you get this information from?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
There were a few sniggers in the crowd.

“We need to wrap things up, sir,” PC Walker said.

“Do we have an avenger out there?” the woman with the big nose shouted.

“I don’t believe that to be the case,” Superintendent Smyth said. “Whatever the victims have done in the past – it does not justify what happened to them. I will not have people taking the law into their own hands – not on my watch.”
“So, it’s true then?” the woman said. “Someone is on a crusade for justice?”
“No.”
“The law has failed victims of abuse, hasn’t it?” a man cried from the back. “It’s alright for a man to use his fists on a woman but it’s not alright for someone to punish him for it.”
“That is not what is happening here.”
“What is happening here then?”
“Something…” Superintendent Smyth looked to PC Walker for assistance. The press liaison officer shook his head.

“We will apprehend the people responsible for the atrocities that have befallen this city,” Superintendent Smyth said. “That is a promise. York has the finest team of detectives in the country, and we will not stop until justice is served.”

“Yours or theirs?” big nose wondered.

“What?”

“Is it true that you’re not trying particularly hard to find the people responsible?” a young man asked. “The victims were scum, so they’re actually doing you a favour, aren’t they?”
“The victims were not scum,” Superintendent Smyth said. “Some of them were decent people.”
“Sir.” It was PC Walker. “We need to stop there.”

“If there are no more questions,” Superintendent Smyth said. “We’ll wrap things up. If anyone knows who the woman on the screen is, please call the number displayed. Thank you again for coming.”

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

“Good evening,” Walter Plover said.

He cast a glance at the beers on the table.

“Hi,” Whitton said.

“Are we celebrating a special occasion?” Walter asked.

“Something like that,” Smith said.

“Where are the children?”

“At home,” Smith said. “Where else would they be? It’s a school night.”
“I see.”
     Walter looked at Dr Vennell then his gaze fell on Smith.

Smith took the hint. “This is a friend of ours. Fiona, this is Walter – he’s been helping us through the adoption process.”
“Nice to meet you,” Walter said.

“You should have received my report,” Dr Vennell said.

Smith wanted the floor to swallow him up.

“I was the one who evaluated Fran Rogers,” Dr Vennell explained. “She seems to be doing well.”
“Is that so?” Walter said. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”
After another disapproving glance at the beers, he turned and went to join his companion at their table.

“Fuck it,” Smith said. “Why did you have to tell him that?”
“What harm can it do?” Dr Vennell said.

“You don’t know the man. That bastard will do everything he can to throw a spanner in the works, and you’ve just handed him more ammunition. He’s probably going to claim that the psychology evaluation was biased because we’re acquainted.”
“Nonsense,” Whitton said. “There’s nothing in the rules that says we can’t socialise with a psychologist.”
“This is going to come back to bite us on the arse,” Smith said. “I need another beer.”

The food arrived and Smith tucked in. He thought the herbs in the meatballs tasted strange, but he had to admit that the dish really was tasty. He finished before Whitton and Dr Vennell.

“That wasn’t half bad.”
“So I see,” Whitton said. “Better than a steak and ale pie?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. That prick is watching us.”
“What?”
“Walter fucking Plover,” Smith said. “He’s keeping a close eye on us. He’s probably counting the beers I’m drinking.”
     The waiter appeared, and Smith ordered another round of drinks.

“I’m going to have a word with Bridge.”
“Leave him be,” Whitton said. “If he wanted to chat, he would have come over.”
“You’re probably right,” Smith said. “Do you think we’re going to crack this one?”
“Does he ever switch off?” Dr Vennell asked.

“Nope,” Whitton said. “Once a case is set in motion, he can’t let it lie until it’s over.”
“That’s not exactly healthy.”
“It’s the way I’m wired,” Smith said. “I can’t change it.”
     The waiter brought the drinks to the table. Smith raised his glass in the air and glanced over at Walter Plover. The adoption agent was still keeping a close eye on their table. Smith raised the glass higher, looked him in the eyes and took a long drink.

“Dickhead.”
“You’re terrible,” Whitton said.

“Have there been any new developments in the investigation?” Dr Vennell asked.

“I don’t think we should discuss that here,” Whitton said.

“Fiona knows enough already,” Smith said. “She’s not going to blab to the press. The answer is no. We’re no closer to finding out who the Creed woman is. Her minions are still not talking. We tried hypnosis, and even that didn’t make any difference. I’m running out of ideas. I’m convinced that she’s doing this for her own perverse pleasure – that’s her motivation, but in this instance knowing the motive isn’t going to get us any nearer to her. We need to try a different approach, but right now I can’t come up with one.”
“Sleep on it,” Dr Vennell advised. “Often that’s all it takes.”
“I don’t have time to sleep on it,” Smith said. “More people are going to die in the meantime. There are bucketloads of people the justice system has let down, and she’s going to keep on with her delusional retribution bullshit.”

“Have you considered a common denominator?” Dr Vennell said.

“In this case, there aren’t any common denominators,” Smith said. “None at all, and that’s very rare. The victims aren’t selected for who they are – they’re chosen because of what they are, and that makes it tricky to determine where she’ll strike next. She has a mini army of devoted followers who will do anything she tells them to do and that means her hands are clean. Nothing we find will lead us back to her. I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even be able to nail her when we do find her. She’s made damn sure that there is no evidence that will implicate her in any of the murders. It’s actually quite brilliant when you think about it.”
“Now I am getting worried,” Whitton said.

“It is what it is.”

Smith yawned and stretched his arms out.

“I’m knackered. Would you mind if we just got the bill?”
“Not yet.” It was Dr Vennell.

Whitton stared at her and frowned.

“I’m sorry,” Dr Vennell said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Tell me some more about how you usually go about tackling a murder investigation.”
“There is no one size fits all method,” Smith said. “Every murder case is different.”
“But there must be some similarities in the methods you use to solve them.”
“Of course,” Whitton said. “We gather evidence – we look at motive, opportunity and we speak to witnesses, but the real detection is done when we least expect it.”
“Moments of insight, you mean?”
“Something like that,” Smith said. “Often, it’s what’s not at a crime scene that is more important than what is, and sometimes it’s the tiniest piece of information that leads to a breakthrough, even if it seemed insignificant at the time.”
“And have you come across anything like that during the course of the investigation?” Dr Vennell asked.

“If we had, we would have picked up on it.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look across the restaurant to where your colleague is sitting.”
“What for?” Smith said.

“Please, just humour me.”
Smith did as he was asked. Bridge was deep in conversations with the black-haired woman, and they appeared to be getting on well.

“Without looking back at me,” Dr Vennell said. “Tell me what colour jumper I’m wearing.”
“What?” Smith said.

“Tell her,” Whitton urged.

“It’s blue I think,” Smith said.

“Are you sure?” Dr Vennell said.

“Possibly black.”
“Which one is it?” Whitton said. “Blue or black?”

“Definitely blue,” Smith said and turned back around. “Shit.”
Dr Vennell wasn’t even wearing a jumper. She was dressed in a black skirt and a green blouse.

“Very often we fail to see what is right in front of our faces,” she said. “Especially when it’s something as unimportant as the colour of a jumper.”

Smith ordered another round of drinks and asked for the bill.

“We’ve missed something important,” he said.

“Don’t we always?” Whitton said.

“No, this is something recent – I’m sure of it.”
“All of the murders have been recent,” Whitton reminded him.

“Something very recent. Today even.”
“I’m sure you’ll let us know when you’ve figured it out,” Whitton said. “What’s taking that waiter so long?”

Walter Plover and his miserable companion appeared at the table without Smith even realising they’d walked over.

“Good evening,” Walter said. “I hope your meal was better than ours.”
“Mine was delicious,” Smith said.

“The food was terrible,” Walter’s friend said. “And the menu was all in foreign.”
“It’s an Italian restaurant,” Whitton said.

“And this is York. You’d have thought they would have taken that into consideration.”
“We’ll leave you in peace,” Walter said. “I just thought I should let you know that you’ll probably be hearing from the adoption agency tomorrow.”
“And?” Smith said.

“You’ll be hearing from them tomorrow,” Walter said. “Probably late morning.”
“Will Fran be able to stay with us?” Whitton said.

“I really don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“What are you saying?” Smith said.

“It’s been clear to me from the onset that you’re simply just not suitable adoptive applicants,” Walter explained. “And your recent underhandedness just goes to prove that I was correct.”
“Underhandedness?” Smith repeated.

“Falsifing a psychological evaluation is a serious matter.”
“I assure you that everything in my report was the truth,” Dr Vennell said.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Walter said. “And speaking of reports – my own will be submitted first thing in the morning and I will be recommending that Fran be placed in foster care at the earliest opportunity. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Hold on,” Smith said. “You can’t just leave it like that. Surely there’s something we can do. We can appeal against your decision.”
“Good luck with that. You’ll be contacted in the morning. Come on, Joan.”
With that, Walter and his frumpy friend were off.

“He can’t be serious,” Smith said.

“We’ll fight it,” Whitton said. “There is no way I’m going to let that little girl get shipped off to a family of strangers. She needs us.”
“We won’t let that happen. I’ll grab him by the balls and force him to change his mind if I have to.”
“You’re not going to do that,” Whitton said.

“This is all my fault,” Dr Vennell said. “If I hadn’t invited you out, he would be none the wiser.”
“You weren’t to know he was going to show up,” Smith said.

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” Whitton said. “I knew that agreeing to let you see Fran was a bad idea.”
“We’ll beat it,” Smith said. “We’ll fight it with everything we have.”
“I told you it was a stupid idea,” Whitton said. “I’m going to the Ladies. Find out where that fucking waiter has got to with the bill. I just want to get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

Whitton wasn’t in the bed next to him when Smith woke the next morning, and when he went downstairs, he realised she’d already left for work. He debated whether to give her a call but decided against it. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since they left the Italian restaurant, and it was clear that she was still seething about Walter Plover’s revelation. Smith wasn’t sure what to do about that. The pedantic adoption agent had made it quite clear that the contents of his report would all but damn Fran to a foster family, and Smith couldn’t think of a way to change things.

“Where’s Mum?”

Laura had come into the kitchen. Fran Rogers was standing behind her.

“She went to work early,” Smith said.
“Why?”

“It beats me,” Smith said. “Is Darren taking you to school?”
“Lucy said she’d walk with us,” Laura said. “Darren has to stay at home with Andrew.”

“No worries. I suppose I’d better be off to work myself.”

There was an almighty crash in the hallway and one of the dogs barked.

“Theakston was chasing a wasp,” Laura said.

Smith went to investigate. The portly Bull Terrier was panting hard next to the living room door. The source of the crash was on the floor next to him. It was a framed photograph taken in Australia. Smith, Whitton and Laura were in front of a swimming pool. All three of them were smiling for the camera, oblivious to the horrors to come during the trip. The frame had broken, and the glass was cracked. A dead wasp lay on its back next to the photo.

Smith crouched down and picked up the broken frame.

“Are you happy now?” he said to Theakston.

The Bull Terrier carried on panting.

“You silly fool.”

Smith got to his feet and looked at the gap on the wall where the photograph used to be. The paint had faded and there was a layer of dust around the edges. He put the broken frame on the coffee table, grabbed his car keys and left the house.

He was halfway to work when it occurred to him what had been bothering him. Theakston’s antics with the wasp had somehow jogged his memory.

“The photograph,” he said to himself.

When he’d gone to see Jemma Watkins the first time, he was sure the photograph of Jemma and her sisters hadn’t been displayed on the wall. The photo taken in Whitby definitely wasn’t there and Smith couldn’t figure out why this was bugging him. His thoughts turned to the conversation with Dr Vennell in the Italian restaurant. They’d discussed detection techniques and Smith recalled mentioning something about the little things in an investigation often being important. He didn’t know why, but he was convinced that the photograph in Jemma Watkins’ house was significant. He made a mental note to bring it up in the morning briefing.

It was raining hard when Smith got out of his car at the station. He hurried inside and ran his hands through his hair. It was badly in need of a cut.

“They reckon we’re in for a wet few days,” Baldwin said. “Autumn is definitely on the way.”

“There’s not much you can do about the weather,” Smith said. “Have there been any developments overnight?”
“You could say that. Did you catch the press conference?”
“I didn’t, no.”
“The Super didn’t do us any favours,” Baldwin said.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? What did he do this time?”
“His foot was so deep in his mouth,” Baldwin said. “I’m surprised he could breathe.”
“God help us all. Did anything come of the appeal?”
“Nothing concrete. We’ve had the usual callers, but no genuine ones. It’s still early days.”
“I’m going to grab a coffee before the briefing,” Smith said.

Whitton was sitting with Bridge in the canteen. Smith selected a coffee from the space aged machine and joined them at their table.

“How was your date?” he asked Bridge.

“I think I’m in love,” Bridge replied.

“I give up.”
“Caroline is the one. She’s really amazing. She’s funny, intelligent and she just happens to be drop dead gorgeous too. I’m going to check my emails.”

“Are you alright?” Smith said to Whitton when Bridge had gone. “You left without saying goodbye.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Whitton said. “I needed some time to think. I can’t bear the fact that Fran will be taken away from us. We promised to be there for her.”
“We’re not going to give up,” Smith said. “Walter fucking Plover isn’t the only adoption agent in this city. There is no way I’m going to let him dictate Fran’s future.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’ll figure something out. I’ve worked out what it was that was bugging me. Theakston was chasing a wasp earlier and he knocked a photograph off the wall. It was the one of you, me and Laura in Perth at the start of the holiday.”
“What’s that got to do with the investigation?”
“When Kerry and me went to see Jemma Watkins earlier in the week,” Smith said. “There was no photo on the wall in the living room.”
“How can that be important?” Whitton wondered.

“I don’t know,” Smith said. “I just know that it is. Why was it not there before?”
“Plenty of reasons. She could have recently dug it out and hung it. It has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“It’s significant,” Smith said. “I’m sure of it.”
“I can’t even remember who was in the photo.”
“It was Jemma and her two sisters,” Smith said. “Bridge and Harry spoke to one of them – Tanya I think her name was, but I can’t remember the name of the other one.”

“Natalie.”
Smith turned to see that Bridge had returned.

“Natalie Watkins,” he said. “I’ve just got an email from Barry Stone. He’s managed to find out who the SoSueMe woman is. Her name is Natalie Watkins – she’s Tanya’s twin sister, and you and Whitton have met her.”
“When?” Smith said.

“The other night at the Hog’s Head,” Bridge said. “She was the one who came to you with the info about the Creed.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

“Natalie Watkins is proving to be rather elusive,” DI Smyth told the team in the briefing room. “Uniforms were sent out to her residence, and her house mate hasn’t seen her for almost a week. According to her, Natalie told her she was taking a holiday in Tenerife, but a quick check confirmed that she doesn’t even have an up-to-date passport. She’s hiding out somewhere else.”
“Does she have any other properties in her name?” Smith said.

“Not according to the register.”
“What about her parents?” Bridge said. “Me and Harry went to see them a few days ago – they might know where she is.”
“Mr and Mrs Watkins will be brought in for questioning during the course of the morning.”

“What else do we know about Natalie?” Smith asked.

“She’s one of twins,” DI Smyth said.

“The hedge trimmer,” DC Moore said.

“Are you feeling alright?” Whitton asked him.

“We met her,” DC Moore said. “She was outside in the garden, trimming the hedges.”
“Why didn’t you recognise her from the photo we got from her social media?” DC King said. “If they’re twins, I mean.”
“Natalie and Tanya are non-identical twins,” DI Smyth said.

“I saw a photo of them,” Smith said. “At Jemma Watkins’ house. It was taken about ten years ago, but you can see that they don’t look alike. I knew that photo was important. When me and Kerry first went there, it wasn’t on the wall, but when Whitton and me went there yesterday it was.”
“What does that even tell us though?” Bridge said.

“I have no idea.”
“Very useful.”
“It’s important,” Smith said.

“Are we working on the assumption that Natalie is the woman we’ve been looking for?” DC King said. “Do we think she’s the one behind the Creed?”
“It’s very possible,” DI Smyth said. “We’ve put out her photograph, and we have every available officer out looking for her. We’ll find her.”

“I want to go and speak to her parents at home,” Smith said.

“We’ll be bringing them in during the course of the morning,” DI Smyth reminded him.

“No,” Smith disagreed. “If they know where Natalie is, we’re not going to get it out of them by hauling them into the station. They’ll be instantly on guard. Let me pay them a visit somewhere they feel more comfortable.”
“Do you think there’s a chance that they’re also involved in this?” DC King said.

“I don’t think they are.” It was Bridge. “When me and Harry went to speak to them, they came across as pretty harmless.”
“They seemed like decent people,” DC Moore added. “Rather dull if you want to know the truth.”
“I’m not saying they’re involved with the Creed,” Smith said. “But we know that their daughter is. I want to try to get them to tell me more about her.”
“They ought to know about her friends,” DI Smyth said. “You’re right, it might pay off to speak to them at home. Smith, I’ll come with you. Bridge, I want you and Harry to see if Barry Stone has come up with anything else from Natalie Watkins’ social media. There might be something in there that can give us a clue about where she might be. Whitton, I think it might be worth you and Kerry having another crack at the two Creed members we have in custody. Show them the photograph of Natalie Watkins and see what kind of reaction you get.”

* * *

“Is everything alright with you?” DI Smyth asked.

He and Smith were on their way to Bert and Janet Watkins’ house.

The rain was pelting against the window and the wipers were struggling to keep up.

“Never better,” Smith said.

“You seem a bit preoccupied.”
“We’re having a few hiccups with the adoption agency,” Smith said. “One of the adoption agents is determined to scupper our chances of keeping Fran with us.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Other than arresting the prick for being an arsehole,” Smith said. “I don’t think there is. I’ll figure it out – I’m not going to let them take Fran away from us. We promised her.”

Bert and Janet opened the door together again. Smith and DI Smyth explained who they were and asked if they could come in for a chat.

“What’s this all about?” Bert asked. “We’ve spoken to two of your lot already.”
“You know what it’s about, love,” Janet said. “You watched the press conference last night.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” Bert said. “Our Natalie isn’t dangerous. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Can we come inside?” DI Smyth said. “It’s chucking it down, and your neighbour’s curtains are twitching.”
“Let them have a nose,” Janet said. “Let them think what they want – our Natalie hasn’t done anything wrong. I suppose you’d better come in then.”
     They sat in the tiny sitting room. Smith and DI Smyth weren’t offered anything to drink.

“What did you think when you saw Natalie’s photo during the press conference?” Smith said.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Bert said. “It came as quite a shock.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” DI Smyth said.

“A few months back,” Janet said.

“Is it normal for you not to see her for such long periods of time?” Smith said.

“She’s a grown woman with her own life to live,” Bert said. “It happens.”
“Have you spoken to her at all in that time?” Smith said.

“No,” Janet said.

“So, if we were to go through your phone and email records, we wouldn’t find any correspondence with her?”
“I don’t like your tone very much,” Bert said. “My wife is not a liar.”

“The woman Natalie lives with hasn’t seen her for over a week,” DI Smyth said. “She told her she was taking a holiday in Tenerife, but that’s impossible because her passport has expired. Did she mention anything to you about going abroad?”
“Nothing,” Janet said.

“Do you have any idea about where she could be?” Smith said. “Perhaps she’s staying with a friend.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Would it be possible to give us a list of her friends?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that either,” Janet said.

“Natalie likes to keep herself to herself,” Bert said. “We don’t know any of her friends.”
“That’s very convenient,” Smith said.

“I’ll ask you to watch your mouth while you’re in my house,” Bert told him.

“Natalie is one of twins, isn’t she?” DI Smyth said.

“That’s right,” Janet said.

“And I believe her sister still lives here with you?” Smith said.

“It’s not against the law, is it?” Bert said.

“No,” Smith said. “Can we have a word with Natalie’s sister? It’s Tanya, isn’t it.”
“She’s not here,” Janet said.

“When will she be back?” DI Smyth said.

“After work.”
“Where does she work?” Smith said. “We can go and see her there.”
“You can’t,” Bert said.

“I assure you that we can,” DI Smyth said.

“She’s a primary school teacher,” Janet said. “You can’t bother her at school.”
Smith ignored her. “Which school does she work at?”
“This is preposterous,” Bert said. “Janet and me have done nothing wrong. If we knew where Natalie was, we’d tell you.”

“Have either of you heard Natalie talk about something called the Creed?” Smith said.

“The Creed?” Bert repeated. “Never heard of it.”
“Me neither,” Janet said. “What is it?”
“Never mind,” DI Smyth said. “If Natalie happens to get in touch, I want you to call us straight away.”
He took out one of his cards and placed it on the coffee table.

“It’s extremely important,” Smith said. “We don’t know how involved Natalie is in all of this, but it’s important that we find her. And if you do happen to know something about her whereabouts and you keep that information to yourselves, we’ll be pursuing criminal charges against both of you.”
“What criminal charges?” Bert said.

“Perversion of justice,” DI Smyth said. “For one. Possibly harbouring a criminal. Both of which carry hefty prison sentences. If you hear from Natalie, we want to know about it. Is that understood?”
“We don’t know where she is,” Janet said.

“And you’re making a huge mistake,” Bert added.

“I don’t think we are,” Smith said. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom before I go – too much coffee this morning.”
“Nice try,” Janet said. “You must think I was born yesterday. That’s the oldest trick in the book. If you want to snoop around, I suggest you come back with a piece of paper that tells us that we have no choice in the matter.”

“I think we’re done here,” DI Smyth said. “You know what to do if Natalie does contact you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

“Theresa Nolan and David Wells are definitely acquainted with Natalie Watkins,” Whitton told the rest of the team in the mid-morning briefing.”
“There was no doubt about it,” DC King said. “Both of them reacted when we brought out the photograph.”
“Did they tell you anything else?” DI Smyth asked.

“Unfortunately, not,” Whitton said.

“I didn’t think they would,” Smith said. “We need to go about this differently.”
“What did you have in mind?” DI Smyth said.

“I want to rattle Natalie’s family a bit. We’ve yet to speak to her twin sister, but I got the feeling that her parents were not telling us everything.”
“I got that impression too,” DI Smyth said. “When someone refuses to let you use the bathroom, it’s usually because they’ve got something to hide.”
“Do you think Natalie could be holed up in the house somewhere?” Bridge said.

“Stranger things have happened,” Smith said. “How soon can we get a warrant to tear the place apart?”
“I’ll get onto it right away,” DI Smyth said. “The CPS will agree that it’s justified.”

“In the meantime,” Smith said. “The next port of call is the school where Tanya Watkins works. I don’t give a shit about bothering her at work.”
“Do we know which school it is?” Whitton said.

“Heworth Primary,” Smith told her.

“How did you find that out?” DI Smyth said. “Mr and Mrs Watkins didn’t tell us.”
“There was a photo on the wall in the hallway,” Smith said. “Of Tanya and a bunch of kids. The school was in the background. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“You’re on form this morning,” Bridge said.

“I’m getting a bit tired of this investigation,” Smith said. “And I want it put to bed.”
     His phone started to ring. He looked at the screen and let it go to voicemail. Soon afterwards, Whitton’s ringtone sounded. She glanced at Smith, and he gave her a half smile.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.”
She left the small conference room and Smith rubbed his eyes. He felt sick to the stomach.

“Problems?” DI Smyth asked.

“It’s the adoption agency,” Smith explained. “I think they’re calling to give us some bad news about Fran.”
“I’m sorry, Sarge,” DC King said.

“Same here,” DC Moore said.

“Surely there’s something you can do?” Bridge said. “There must be some kind of appeal process.”
“The dickhead in charge reckons his opinion is final,” Smith said. “I suppose we’ll soon find out.”
     Whitton returned and the expression on her face was difficult to read.

“Well?” Smith asked her.

“They wouldn’t tell me over the phone,” she said. “They want us to come into the offices sometime this morning.”
“Go now,” DI Smyth said.
“What about the investigation?” Smith said.

“Some things are more important than a murder investigation. Get going, and good luck.”
“Thanks, boss,” Smith said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need all the luck we can get.”

* * *

Something was happening when Smith and Whitton went inside the building that housed the adoption agency. Smith could sense tension in the air, and he could hear the sound of raised voices. They approached the front desk.

“What’s going on?” Smith asked her.

It was the same woman who had been manning the desk earlier in the week.

“Big drama,” she said. “Please take a seat. I’ll let someone know you’re here.”

“I wonder what she meant by that,” Whitton said.

“Someone doesn’t sound happy,” Smith said.

There was definitely some kind of altercation underway down the corridor. Smith recognised one of the voices – it was Walter Plover. A door slammed and the anally retentive agent appeared. He was very red in the face and there was fury in his eyes. He glanced at Smith and Whitton, whispered something to the receptionist and hurried back down the corridor. Soon afterwards, another door was slammed.

“You can go through now,” the receptionist told Smith and Whitton.

“He’s in a good mood,” Smith said.

The receptionist smiled. “First door on the left. You’ll be dealing with Mrs Duncan today.”

There were two people inside the room when Smith and Whitton went inside. It was two women. Smith recognised one of them – it was Bianca, the woman who’d come to the house with Walter Plover. He assumed the other woman was Mrs Duncan. She was at least two decades older than Bianca and Smith thought she had a kind face.’

“Please close the door and take a seat,” she said.

Smith and Whitton sat down opposite the two women.

Mrs Duncan introduced herself and insisted that they call her Penny. She opened up a file in front of her and put on a pair of glasses. Then she smiled.

“Congratulations.”
Smith wasn’t sure if his ears were working properly. He asked Penny to repeat herself.

“Everything seems to be in order,” she said. “There are still a few formalities to iron out, but you know all about that, don’t you? This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position.”
“Are you telling us the adoption application has been successful?” Whitton said.

“I am. There are some forms to sign, and Bianca will help you with those in a minute.”
“But I thought…”
Smith was prevented from finishing the sentence when Whitton gave his thigh a sharp pinch.

Penny got to her feet and held out a hand. Smith stood up too. He shook the hand and was forced to sit right back down when the muscles in his legs suddenly became too weak to hold him up. The temporary paralysis had nothing to do with Whitton’s earlier pinch. Something else was happening to his body and he was powerless to stop it.

“Take a moment,” Penny said. “This bit can often get very emotional. Can I get you something to drink? Water perhaps?”
“I’ll be fine,” Smith said. “This is the best news.”
“Francesca is a very lucky little girl,” Bianca said. “I could see that the moment I went inside your house.”
“Are you alright?” Whitton asked Smith.

He took a few deep breaths and nodded.

“I’m more than alright.”

“Shall we get the boring stuff out of the way now?” Bianca said.

“Let’s do it,” Smith said.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

“I don’t understand,” Smith said.

He and Whitton were sitting opposite Bianca in a different office. There was a pile of paperwork on the table between them.

“We bumped into Walter Plover last night and he told us the decision had gone against us.”
“Let’s just say that Mr Plover should have been more observant and a little less tardy.”
“I never had him pegged as a slacker,” Smith said.

“He’s been doing this for a very long time,” Bianca said. “And as such he believes that certain tasks are beneath him. Can you keep a secret?”
“If it’s worth keeping, yes.”
“Mr Plover may be a pedant, but his nit-picking doesn’t stretch to the composition of his reports. He’s in the habit of sketching out a very rough draft and leaving it up to someone else to polish it up a bit.”
“And it’s you who’s tasked with the polishing?” Whitton said.

“It is,” Bianca said. “And I can be quite creative when I want to be. You didn’t hear this from me, but I may have used a modicum of artistic license in this instance. Certain chunks were cut, and others were embellished as I saw fit.”

Smith took a moment to digest this. Not only had Bianca done them a favour so huge it would be impossible to repay her, but she’d also risked a hell of a lot in doing so. He told her as much.

“There’s no harm done,” she said. “Mr Plover had every opportunity to proofread my edited version, but he neglected to do so. As far as the board is concerned the final report was his and his alone.”
“You knew he wouldn’t read it,” Smith guessed.

“I had a strong suspicion, yes.”

“Why?” Smith said. “Why would you stick your neck out for us?”
“Because I’m a firm believer in doing the right thing, and what Mr Plover was doing was not the right thing.”

“What if he tries to make waves?” Whitton put forward. “He’s going to find out that you embellished his report, so he could cause problems for us and for you.”
“He won’t admit to it,” Bianca said. “It was his responsibility to furnish the board with a report and, as he’s signed off on the one I edited, it would be embarrassing for him to admit he was at fault.”

“We can’t thank you enough for this,” Smith said. “We’ll be forever grateful.”
“You took a huge gamble by doing this,” Whitton added.

Bianca smiled. “I’m not a gambling woman, but even I know that it’s impossible to beat an opponent who has nothing to lose. Even if I had got into trouble I really didn’t care. My husband has just been offered a great job in the States, and, with or without a good reference from the adoption agency, it makes no difference to me. It was worth it just to see the look on Mr Plover’s face. Now, let’s make a start on the boring stuff. Congratulations again.”

* * *

When Smith walked back to the car he caught his reflection in a shop window. The grin on his face wouldn’t budge and he didn’t care.

“I can’t wait to tell the girls.”

“Fran is going to be so happy,” Whitton said.

“That’s one problem out of the way,” Smith said. “Now we just have a psychopathic Creed bitch to catch. We’re on a roll – I can feel it.”
     His phone started to ring. It was the ringtone for DI Smyth.

“We’ve got a warrant to search the Watkins’ property.”
The DI didn’t beat around the bush.

“Did we manage to get hold of Tanya at the school?”

“Bridge and Harry went to see her,” DI Smyth said. “But she wasn’t at work. She hasn’t been there since last term.”
“Interesting,” Smith said.

“It certainly is. Where are you now?”
“We’ve just finished up at the adoption agency.”
“How did it go?”
“We did it,” Smith said. “In a bizarre series of events things swung back in our favour.”
“That’s great news. I’ve informed Webber and he’s going to meet you at the Watkins residence with the warrant.”
“We’re getting close, boss.”
“I think we are.”

“Webber is going to meet us at the Watkins’ house,” Smith told Whitton. “The DI managed to get a warrant pretty sharpish. Tanya didn’t return to school for the new term and I’m starting to wonder if the entire family are involved.”
“Did the DI mention backup?”
“Strangely enough, no. I don’t think it’s necessary. They won’t be expecting us, and that should work in our favour.”

Neither of them said a word as they drove west through the city. Smith was finding it hard to push Fran’s adoption from his mind. The decision had come as a huge shock, and he was struggling to process it. He knew he needed to focus entirely on the matter at hand, but it was proving to be difficult.

“Chalmers has invited us to his wife’s sixtieth this weekend,” he said out of the blue.

“We hardly know the woman,” Whitton said.

“The boss isn’t looking forward to spending an evening with Mrs Chalmers’ brother and her old work colleagues,” Smith said. “He told me he finds them excruciatingly dull.”
“I suppose we should give him a bit of support,” Whitton said. “It looks like Webber is already here.”

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

Smith parked behind Grant Webber’s car and he and Whitton got out. Thankfully, the rain had eased off a bit. The Head of Forensics exited his own car and walked over to them.

“Morning. DI Smyth has two officers in position at the back of the house,” Webber said. “And Bridge and Harry are parked in a car just down the street.”
“The boss didn’t mention anything about backup to me,” Smith said.

“You know what he’s like. What is it we’re looking for in there?”
“Anything that can tie them to the Creed,” Smith said. “And perhaps a couple of Watkins twins.”
Webber raised an eyebrow. “It’s going to be one of those, is it?”
“I damn well hope so.”

Once again Fred and Janet Watkins answered the door together.

Fred looked at Smith. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Be my guest,” Smith told him. “And he’ll probably be happy to charge you a couple of hundred quid to explain what this is.”
He showed him the search warrant and handed him a copy.

“That’s yours to do with as you see fit. I suggest you read it. It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“You can’t do this,” Janet said. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Smith said. “Under certain circumstances we would require you to accompany us during the search, but I believe those circumstances do not apply here.”
“What do you mean?” Fred asked.

“I’m going to ask you to step outside,” Smith said. “Do you or your wife have any cellular devices on your person?”
“What?”

“I need you to leave all your electronic devices inside the house.”
“Both phones are on charge in the kitchen,” Janet said.

“That’s great. There’s a Toyota Yaris parked just down the road. Two of our detectives will look after you inside it.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Fred said.

“Or we could hold you in a police car if you’d prefer,” Smith said. “I see the neighbours are already taking a keen interest. I suggest you get into the Toyota before we have no option but to make a scene.”
“How long is this going to take?” Janet said.

“As long as it takes,” Smith said.

He wasn’t sure whether the Watkins house was a potential crime scene, but he decided not to take any chances. After donning the usual protective clothing Smith and Webber went inside. Webber stopped dead in the hallway and Smith wondered what he was doing. He opened his mouth to ask him, but Webber put a finger to his lips to tell Smith to keep quiet. Then he pointed upstairs.

Smith heard it too now. Somebody was moving around up there. There was another noise – it sounded like gentle music was being played.

“We should call for backup,” Webber whispered.

Smith shook his head.

Another sound caught his attention. It was a quiet tapping noise, but it sounded like it was coming from below his feet. A flash of a memory appeared in his mind’s eye, and it caused him to freeze.

What?

Webber mouthed the word.

Smith gave another shake of his head and the memory vanished.

Later, it would come back to him. He would recall the time he was trapped in a cellar, and he would wake up screaming. He realised that he hadn’t thought about that for quite some time.

The entrance to that cellar had been hidden by a thick carpet in the hallway and Smith wondered if there was something similar here. He took out his phone and composed a short message to Whitton. Something didn’t feel right inside the Watkins’ house, and he wanted to make her aware of it. The sense of foreboding that he felt couldn’t be ignored. Something was rotten within the walls of this property – even the air was thick with malice. Smith could almost taste it.

His phone beeped and he cursed himself for not switching it on silent. Webber’s expression told him that he disapproved too. Smith mouthed a silent apology and pointed to the carpet. The melancholy music was still playing somewhere upstairs.

Webber crouched down and began tapping the carpet. He did this the whole length of the hallway and stopped next to the door that led into the sitting room. Smith did a quick check of the rooms downstairs to make sure there was nobody lurking within and bent down next to Webber.

“What do you think?” he whispered.

“I think there’s something down there,” the Head of Forensics said. “We need help.”
“I want to check upstairs first,” Smith said. “There’s someone up there.”
“You need to wait. I’m getting a bad vibe from this place.”
“I thought you were a man of science. You don’t believe in bad vibes.”
“There’s something evil inside this house,” Webber carried on, regardless. “I don’t like it.”

The whispered conversation was cut short by a screeching noise from upstairs. Shortly afterwards there was a loud crack, and someone screamed. The wail was high-pitched, and Smith knew it had come out of the mouth of a woman.

He bounded up the stairs two steps at a time. After glancing in the bedrooms, he found what he was looking for in the bathroom. The window was wide open, and Smith could hear muffled voices outside. He peered out of the window and found the source of the crack and the scream. The drainpipe had snapped in half and there was a figure on the ground. PC Miller and PC Griffin were crouched down next to it. On closer inspection Smith realised that the woman had survived the fall from the drainpipe and was very much alive. He also realised who she was – it was Natalie Watkins. The elusive Watkins twin had been found.

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

“Are you ready for this?”

DI Smyth was drinking coffee with Smith in the canteen. If ever there was a time that Smith needed a caffeine fix it was right now. The scene that greeted them when they finally managed to gain access to the cellar below the house belonging to Fred and Janet Walters was something nobody who went down there would ever forget.

House of Horrors was how Grant Webber had described it, and Smith was inclined to agree with him. In the dank, murky depths of the house was a room that had been carefully designed with only one thing in mind. It was a place of torture. It was a space where extreme violence was carried out. Under the spell of the woman who introduced them to the Creed, the helpless minions were made to inflict untold damage and death.

Webber and his team were still there, and Smith didn’t envy them. It would eventually take them more than a week to collect and document the evidence found within the four walls of the cellar and it would be another fortnight before they had a full picture of what had occurred during the Creed meetings.

Natalie Watkins had come away from the tumble from the bathroom window relatively unscathed. The drainpipe had broken when she was halfway down, and a sprained ankle was the sole extent of her injuries. Natalie was under twenty-four-hour guard at the hospital and so far, she hadn’t uttered a single word.

Tanya Watkins was found skulking in the cellar. Natalie’s twin sister was also refusing to speak, as were Fred and Janet. The only possible conclusion Smith could draw from their silence was all of them were somehow involved in the murders that resulted from the Creed. It truly was a family affair, and it made Smith feel sick to the stomach.

The only member of the Watkins clan whose hands were clean was Jemma. In fact, it was Jemma who had tried to point Smith in the right direction by bringing the photograph of her and her sisters to his attention. She’d suspected that something was terribly wrong in the family for quite some time but when Smith asked her why she didn’t come straight out and tell someone about her suspicions, she told him it was because she was terrified of her family. She knew what they were capable of, and she feared for her life. Later, she would be the key to the motive that, as of yet was eluding Smith. Jemma would explain how the catalyst for the Creed had been the paltry sentence handed to George Leith. Janet and Fred couldn’t live with that, and they had to do something to reset the balance.

Jemma had warned Smith to be extremely careful around her mother. Natalie was the one who’d initially mastered the art of hypnosis, but Janet had taken it to a whole new level, and she’d proven herself to be a brilliant mental manipulator. Smith explained that he wasn’t concerned about this, to which Jemma had told him that he should be. Janet was capable of what Jemma called extreme hypnosis and often the subjects were blissfully unaware that they were being targeted.

“Porter has talked us through what to expect,” DI Smyth said. “And he’s outlined some of the warning signs to be on the look-out for, but from what we’ve seen, we’re not dealing with your run-of-the-mill hypnotist. You need to be very careful.”
Smith finished the coffee in his cup. “I’m not stressed, boss.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were. Are you sure you want to do this alone? It might be better to have someone else in the interview room with you.”
“It’s too risky. And your new man has already ascertained that I’m one of the few people who can’t be hypnotised.”
“He is not my new man.”
“Come off it, boss,” Smith said. “I see how you are when you’re together. I say good luck to you. I can do this – I know I can. I can get her to tell us what we want to know.”
“I’ll be right outside watching the video feed,” DI Smyth said. “If I think something’s going wrong, I’m pulling you out of there immediately.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen what this woman is capable of, and I will not take any chances.”
“Let’s get this over with then,” Smith said and stood up. “What are you up to tomorrow evening?”
“Nothing as yet.”
“Chalmers’ wife is having her sixtieth at the Green Man on Hull Road,” Smith said. “He’d appreciate if the team could be there to alleviate the boredom. His wife’s family and friends are not exactly riveting company.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bring Porter along,” Smith said. “He ought to help spice things up a bit. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SIXTY

Smith looked across the table at the woman sitting opposite him. Janet Watkins’ body language spoke to him. He’d seen it plenty of times before. Her demeanour told him she was expecting everything to go her way. Janet hadn’t requested the services of a legal representative and that served to confirm that she was anticipating getting away with everything she’d done.

Smith explained to her that the proceedings were being recorded to which Janet shrugged her shoulders and fixed her eyes on his. Smith held her gaze. If this was going to work, he needed her to believe that she was in complete control.

“Mrs Watkins,” Smith said. “Janet. Is it OK if I call you Janet?”
“Of course. We’re all friends here.”
“Can you tell me when you became interested in the concept of hypnosis?”
Janet’s right eye twitched. Smith wondered if the question had taken her by surprise.

“Everyone has to have a hobby, don’t you think?”

“Some people collect stamps,” Smith said. “Others like birdwatching. Myself, I’m a keen guitar player. Tell me some more about hypnosis?”

“Picture it as a secret window,” Janet said. “A window very few people are able to see through. Through this window you’re able to see pieces of a person they themselves aren’t even privy to.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“Then let me simplify it for you. Every one of us is made up of a past and a present. The future hasn’t yet happened, so we won’t touch on that. It’s the past that the secret window allows you access to, and with certain techniques we are able to bring that past back to the present. Hypnosis enables us to break through the walls the mind has erected, and we’re able to view the secrets kept hidden within. You have very unusual blue eyes.”

“I get told that a lot,” Smith said.

Janet looked up at the camera attached to the ceiling and she smiled. But when her gaze caught Smith’s again, he saw no life in them. They were simply inky black pools, devoid of emotion.

“Small things entertain small minds.”
Smith had no idea what she meant by that.

“Every odd number contains the letter E.”

Smith suddenly sensed a chill in the air and his mind was feeling somewhat sluggish. He took a few subtle deep breaths and counted back from fifty to ten in his head.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I didn’t know that.”

“You won’t get them to talk to you,” Janet said.

“I don’t need them to tell me anything,” Smith told her. “Everything we need to prove what you did is in the cellar of your house. I know what prompted you to devise the Creed – and it’s not what everyone else thinks.”
“How intriguing.”
“This had nothing to do with a quest for justice,” Smith said. “It wasn’t about getting retribution for those the legal system failed. You feed off the feeling of power. You’re nothing special – I’ve come across much more interesting psychopaths in the course of my career. In fact, I’m feeling a bit short-changed. I really thought that when we got to this stage it would be more fulfilling, but it’s really quite anticlimactic.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I really am sorry.”
Janet inhaled a lungful of air and breathed out through her mouth.

“Where do we go from here?” she said.

“That’s up to you,” Smith found himself saying.

“I’m glad you can see it that way. I can show you, their windows. Do you want me to give you access to the deepest depths of their minds? Do you want to know what they know without them even realising it?”
Smith nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
“Close your eyes.”

Smith obliged. He pictured a simple brick wall, and he held on to that image. Then he brought to mind the melody of a song he’d listened to earlier that day. It was a particularly violent song, and the riffing guitars were all he could hear. The verse reached its crescendo and the chorus exploded to life. With it, Smith concentrated hard on the brick wall in front of him. Pieces were being chipped away. Faster and faster the redbrick was obliterated until there was nothing left of it.

Smith was aware of Janet Watkins’ voice, but he was unable to concentrate on the words she was speaking. He opened his eyes and instantly closed them again when a sense of utter calm rushed through his body.

“That’s good,” Janet said.
She leaned across the table towards him. Ordinarily, this would be a cause for concern, but Smith let her carry on.

“Silence is the lock,” she whispered in his ear.

On the other side of the door DI Smyth was debating whether to stop the interview right there. Smith was entering dangerous territory now and DI Smyth wasn’t sure which bits were real and which bits Smith was playing along with.

“Silence is the lock,” Smith whispered.

“I will give you the key,” Janet said. “But when I do you will lose it immediately. Once it’s gone it will be lost to you forever, and only I know where it’s kept hidden. I am the only one who can open the lock for you. Do you understand?”
Smith pictured the brick wall again. It had been rebuilt.

“You are the only one who can open the lock,” he said. “The others are not going to say anything because only you know where the key is.”

“Once more she leaned in and whispered in his ear.”
Smith nodded.

“You will have no recollection of this,” Janet said. “For you there is only silence.”

Smith got to his feet so quickly that Janet shot back in her chair. He walked over to the camera so he was as close as he could get.

“Silence is the lock.”

The team would watch Janet Watkins’ reaction to the next word he spoke over and over again. Her response was priceless.

Smith stated the time for the tape and left her alone in the interview room.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

“It was so simple it was brilliant,” Smith said.

He was halfway through his third pint of Theakston at the Green Man on Hull Road. Chalmers’ wife’s birthday bash had, thus far been a rather uninspiring event. The DCI hadn’t been exaggerating – the people on the original guestlist really were dull. Smith had been forced to endure a ten-minute conversation with Mrs Chalmers’s brother Nigel about the virtues of different varieties of compost. Her old work colleagues weren’t much better. So far, the most riveting snippet conversation Smith had caught was concerning the plight of the rare Natterjack Toad.

“Silence was the lock she used,” Smith added.

Whitton, Bridge, the DCs King and Moore were sitting at the table with him, as was DI Smyth and Porter Klaus. Chalmers had been forced to return to the table with his wife and her mundane guests.

“And the key was the same word spoken backwards,” Smith said. “Ecnelis is not a proper word, and it’s not something that someone would happen to say by accident. Janet Watkins all but ensured that her minions would remain under her spell.”
     Porter Klaus had been more than happy to hypnotise the two suspects in custody and with the help of the elusive keyword he’d been able to get them to talk about everything that happened during the Creed sessions. This in turn had led to more suspects being apprehended, and a headache of epic proportions was created. It was going to take months to sort through the information they now had at their disposal. The legal implications were horrendous, and it was going to be a mammoth task moving forward. Smith couldn’t care less about that. He’d got what he wanted – the woman behind the Creed was out of harm’s way, and he could put it all behind him.

Janet, Fred, Natalie and Tanya Watkins were implicated in all of the Creed murders, and Smith wondered if this was some kind of record. Four members of the same family would be spending the rest of their lives behind bars. Jemma Watkins had gone into hiding after the press had hounded her day and night, and Smith was happy to let her stay hidden. He knew she played no part in the Creed killings, and he respected her wish to stay away.

“I still don’t get it.” It was DC Moore.

Porter raised an eyebrow.

“He does this a lot,” Smith said. “He’s a bit slow on the uptake at times.”

“What part don’t you get?” Porter said.

“How come Smith managed to get her to tell him what the key was?” DC Moore said.

“All of her victims were given that information,” Porter said. “While they were under the influence of hypnosis. Mrs Watkins was under the impression that DS Smith was well and truly under her spell, and he wasn’t supposed to remember anything.”
“But why couldn’t she hypnotise him?”
“I had a bit of guidance beforehand,” Smith told him. “Porter gave me some tips.”
“I don’t think you really needed my help,” Porter said. “Some people simply cannot be hypnotised.”

“Smith’s always been a bit special,” Bridge said.

“Thanks,” Smith said. “What time is Caroline getting here?”
“She’s not – we broke up.”
“That has to be some kind of record,” Whitton said.

“I’ll live,” Bridge said. “It turns out she wasn’t the one after all.”

Chalmers returned to the table and drained a triple scotch in one go.

“Give me strength.”
“Are you having fun, boss?” Smith said.

“That was thirty minutes of my life I’m never going to get back. I now know the name of every single bloody nitrate in existence. That man will be the death of me.”

“Shall we liven things up a bit?” Smith said.

“How are you planning on doing that?” Chalmers said.

“By abusing the talents of the hero of the investigation,” Smith said.

All eyes turned to Porter Klaus.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“It’s just a bit of harmless fun,” Smith said and told him what he had in mind.

The food was served, and more drinks were enjoyed. Chalmers spent the time alternating between the table where his wife’s guests were sitting and the table of his colleagues, and he was suitably intoxicated.

“What time is the show due to begin?” he asked Smith.

“I’ll go and speak to the DJ,” Smith said.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

Smith left him to dwell on that and made his way over to the DJ in the corner of the room. So far, the selection of music had been the type that usually put Smith to sleep – he wasn’t a big fan of easy listening stuff, but it was Mrs Chalmers’ party so he couldn’t begrudge her that. But the request he was going to make was definitely going to wake a few people up.

The DJ was a young woman, and she looked extremely bored. Smith asked her if she had the song he had in mind, and she answered in the affirmative. She promised to play it when the current Nat King Cole number had finished.

“It’s all set,” Smith said.
He sat back down and downed half a pint in one go.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” Whitton said.

“According to Porter it will,” Smith said.

“I hope it’s not going to backfire.”
“Relax. You had no lasting side-effects when you were made to act like a chimp. It’ll be fine.”

The DJ faded Nat King Cole’s song, and the unmistakable guitar intro of Smith’s request came over the speakers.

“Nothing’s happening,” Bridge said.

“Just wait,” Smith said. “A prequel to the chorus comes in just now.”

The lead singer of Warrant launched into the first words of the song.

Cherry Pie.

At once there was a commotion at Mrs Chalmers’ table. Her brother Nigel was on his feet, as was the toad expert. Both men danced their way to the middle of the room and set about removing various items of clothing. Nigel took off his jumper and began swinging it above his head. The toad man followed suit with a move that popped every button on his shirt. Chalmers wasted no time. He was up from the table, phone in hand ready to record it for posterity’s sake.

The track wasn’t a long one, but the song carried on long enough for Nigel and the toad freak to be left wearing only their underpants. The other people from their table were getting into the spirit of it too.

“Get em’ off,” Mrs Chalmers shouted to the amphibian expert.

Luckily, for everybody else in the pub, that was when the song ended.

The expression on the faces of the two nearly naked men was priceless. Both of them looked utterly bewildered. Nigel glanced down with a look of pure horror in his eyes. The other man quickly gathered up the discarded garments and raced to the Gents. Nigel wasn’t far behind him.

“That was exceptional,” Chalmers remarked. “I haven’t seen anything like that since Superintendent Smyth did his Saturday Night Fever thing that time.”
“Will they be alright?” Whitton said.

“They won’t even remember it,” Porter assured her.

“Shit,” Smith said. “Now you’re in trouble. Mrs Chalmers is on her way over.”

Her mood was difficult to read. Chalmers drained another glass and stood up.

“That wasn’t my idea,” he got in first.

“Well, whoever did come up with it has made this a birthday I’ll never forget,” Mrs Chalmers said. “I haven’t had that much fun in years. Please tell me you got it on video.”
Chalmers grinned and tapped the screen of his phone.

“How did you even make them do that?”
“I’m afraid that was my doing,” Porter admitted.

“Thank you. How?”

“That’s a trade secret I’m afraid,” Smith told her.

He’d had his fill of hypnotism for a very long time, and he really didn’t feel like discussing it now.

“I’ll get a round in,” he said. “I’ll get a stiff drink for Nigel and the toad man too – I reckon they’re probably going to need one.”

THE END

A person riding a horse in a field Description automatically generatedAuthor’s note:

I hope you enjoyed reading THE CREED. I would really appreciate it if you could take the time to leave a review on Amazon (here is the link) and/or Goodreads (here is the link).

You can also drop me an email at starmarine@polka.co.za any time. I would love to hear feedback from you about any of my books and I will endeavour to reply. I have a readers group on Facebook if you would like to join you can do so here

Also by Stewart Giles

DS Jason Smith Series

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated   Phobia: 5 early DS Smith cases   Buy from Amazon

Phobia is a series of five DS Jason Smith cases he worked on before we met him in the first book 'Smith'. We get insights into what moulded him to be the Detective Sergeant we first get a glimpse of in 'Smith'. Smith quickly realizes that police work isn't always cut and dried. Justice is not always black and white; there are many shades of grey in between.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Smith (DS Smith Book 1)   Buy from Amazon

It is Christmas Day in York. A woman is found dead in her bed. A suicide note is found on her chest. It reads ‘I am so sorry Martin’. Hours later the police are called to a house a few miles away. A mother and her daughter have been brutally attacked; the mother is dead, and the daughter is barely alive. The father is found shaking uncontrollably in the corner of the room. He is covered in blood, but he is unharmed. His name is Martin Willow.

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Boomerang (DS Smith Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

A man is killing people in York. Initially the murders appear to be the random acts of a maniac. Detective Jason Smith is put in charge of the investigation. It soon becomes clear that the murders are all connected to him in one way or another. All the killings correspond to events in Smith's life and the murderer leaves dates at the crime scene which tie up to important dates in Smith's history.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Ladybird (DS Smith Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Sergeant Jason Smith is days away from the end of his sick leave after a case that almost cost him his life when he gets a call from an old friend. His friend has been arrested for the murder of a student. He wants Smith to investigate the murder and prove his innocence. Smith is persuaded return to work. The student was killed with a bread knife. Ladybirds were scattered on his dead body

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Occam’s Razor (DS Smith Book 4)   Buy from Amazon

A football player is shot dead in front of a packed crowd of people. DS Jason Smith is put in charge of the investigation. The murder weapon is found in a house across the road from the football ground. It is a rare Russian army issue sniper rifle. As the investigation hits dead end after dead end, two government agents arrive and take over, pushing Smith and his colleagues to the side.

A picture containing graphical user interface Description automatically generated Harlequin (DS Smith Book 5)   Buy from Amazon

The circus comes to town and children start to disappear. Detective Sergeant Jason Smith is persuaded to return to work after three weeks of a marijuana induced haze. Forced to endure the leadership of a new DI, the fulsome Bryony Brownhill, Smith is faced with the most difficult investigation of his colourful career.  When the children who vanished are found murdered in various parts of the city, all clues lead to the circus grounds, but Smith and his team are met with a sinister silence everywhere they turn.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Selene (DS Smith Book 6)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is found tucked up in bed with his throat sliced open two days after Christmas, DS Jason Smith and his team are baffled. It appears he has been drugged, killed and carefully wrapped up in a duvet. The only evidence Smith finds are some strands of hair belonging to a woman. One month later, another man is killed in exactly the same manner but there appears to be no link whatsoever to the two men apart from the fact that they were both single, lonely and middle aged. 

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Horsemen (DS Smith Book 7)   Buy from Amazon

One draining murder investigation after another has left DS Jason on the brink of losing his sanity and he needs a break. A string of armed robberies at the McDonalds in the city of York are getting in the way. Smith’s DI makes him a deal; if he can get to the bottom of it, he can have two weeks off. Smith figures out who the brains behind the robberies is; the young wife of Jimmy Phoenix, the owner of all the McDonalds franchises in the city.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Unworthy (DS Jason Smith Book 8)   Buy from Amazon

DS Jason Smith is dragged away from paternity leave when a woman is killed with her baby in the next room. When more women with children are brutally murdered, Smith discovers that they all have something in common - they all share a secret. Then he finds out that the mother of his own child is on this list of 'Unworthy' women.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Venom (DS Jason Smith Book 9)   Buy from Amazon

Still recovering from an accident, DS Jason Smith receives a strange phone call: ‘I want to live.’ The number is unknown, and Jason puts it down to a hoax call. While doing a favour for his DCI the phone call suddenly begins to make sense and Jason is once again on the trail of a psychopath. Can Smith stop this maniac before more people die? Who is it and why does he have Smith’s number? As the team struggle to find some kind of a lead Jason realises that it may not be his own life in danger this time but he is in danger of losing someone else he cares about. This is a unique story that has a steadily increasing pace that continues to deliver all the way to the very last page.

Severed: A gripping crime thriller with a huge twist. (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 10) by [Stewart Giles] Severed (DS Jason Smith Book 10)   Buy from Amazon

A student, who hasn’t been seen for a while is found dead in her room. Her throat has been cut but it turns out that is not the cause of death! The post-mortem reveals that she had been drained of all her blood. The killer has left behind no evidence and there are no clues. Is there a vampire loose in York? Then another body is found, and Smith and the team are struggling to find a link or a motive. Will this be the case that defeats the brilliant DS Smith? How much more heartache can Jason Smith bear? Severed will take him to hell and back.

Demons: A Detective Jason Smith thriller by [Giles, Stewart] Demons (DS Jason Smith Book 11)   Buy from Amazon

‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’  Someone is killing people in York. All of the victims share a secret that the murderer is somehow aware of and all of them receive an identical message after they are killed.  ‘God has forgiven you your sins, but He could not rid you of your demons. So I have taken them for you.’ Detective Sergeant Jason Smith heads up the most draining investigation he’s ever come across. Coming face to face with demons of his own, will this be the case that finally sends Smith over the edge?

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Deadeye (DS Jason Smith Book 12)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

Calendar Description automatically generated Motive (DS Jason Smith Book 13)   Buy from Amazon

In the week before Christmas, two people are brutally murdered in their homes. There is no sign of a struggle and both victims have had their throats slashed open. Detective Jason Smith is on holiday for the Christmas period, but he finds himself in the middle of the investigation before he knows it. There are no clues left at the murder scenes besides a bizarre series of numbers and letters left in random places - E.6.T.0.M. Smith and the team are baffled. What is the relevance of this ambiguous message? As the bodies start to pile up, and the tensions heat up within the team, Smith soon senses that someone in his team knows more about this than they are letting on. Is there a rat in their midst? And if so, who is it? And why is someone killing people without any obvious motive? In the most bizarre case of Smith's career, will this be the murderer that finally beats him?

A picture containing text, sign, night sky Description automatically generated Australia (DS Jason Smith Book 14)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

Wishbone: A chilling thriller with a dark twist (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 16) by [Stewart Giles] Wishbone (DS Jason Smith Book 16)   Buy from Amazon

'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.'  These seemingly innocent song lyrics are about to send Detective Jason Smith over the edge.  Still traumatised after a harrowing trip back home, Smith is sent headlong into the stuff of nightmares when he returns to work.

When a woman is found dead with her spinal cord severed Smith and his team are thrown into the most disturbing investigation ever. Then another body is found and when Smith realises what this woman was subjected to he knows he's on the trail of the most sadistic killer he's ever come across. All clues point to a Death Metal band. Wishbone are in town for a few shows and when Smith realises all the murders bear striking similarities to their song lyrics he starts to wonder if there is something more to this band than meets the eye. This is the most horrifying case of Smith's career and one the people of York will never forget.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedGhosts (DS Jason Smith Book 17)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Scarecrow (DS Jason Smith Book 18)   Buy from Amazon

The Scarecrow. How do you stop a psychopathic killer when they're always one step ahead of you? A new kind of murderer has caught the attention of the people of York. His attention is focused on the low-life’s and the bottom-feeders of society. He calls himself The Scarecrow. The citizens of York are calling him a hero - a killer ridding society of the undesirables, but Detective Jason Smith can't accept this. And when he finds himself first on the scene of this maniac's first horrific murder, and sees for himself what this self-proclaimed deterrent to crime is capable of, he takes it upon himself to stop The Scarecrow at any cost. But as the brutal murders continue, Smith finds himself wondering if this is a fight he can actually win. The Scarecrow refuses to be stopped. Is this the first killer Smith is unable to beat?

A person playing a guitar Description automatically generated with medium confidenceThe Bluesman (DS Jason Smith Book 19)   Buy from Amazon

Smith isn't In a good place. He's still in shock after the worst case of his career. He has problems on the home front, and he's just been told to take some time off. Smith thinks things couldn’t get much worse. They're about to get much, much worse. Smith gets a phone call. When a stranger asks for his help, he doesn't know what to do. An old friend has gone missing and the parting words of the woman on the phone chill Smith to the bone. He's sold his soul to The Bluesman. Smith has some time off. But as he digs deeper into this mystery Bluesman he starts to wonder about everything else in his life. The Bluesman is not what he seems, and he's going to change Smith's life forever.

 A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Librarian (DS Jason Smith Book 20)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Jason Smith has outwitted more murderers than he cares to admit. His insight into the criminal mind is unrivalled and he's made a career out of outsmarting the depraved and insane killers that have plagued the city of York. But it appears someone has been doing some research on Smith's track record. Somebody knows more than they ought to, and when people are murdered in circumstances, far too familiar to be coincidence, Smith runs out of ideas. The answers to his questions come from an unexpected source. An octogenarian former Librarian who claims to remember everything that has ever happened in her waking life, will prove to be an unusual ally in Smith's quest to bring down the most disturbing killer he's ever come across.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Viaduct (DS Jason Smith Book 21)   Buy from Amazon

Two hundred feet below an old bridge, a teenage girl lies battered and bruised. Barely alive, she knows she's not going to make it. Two days later, another teenager is found in almost exactly the same spot. Suicide. That's what the papers are saying.

But when a third victim of the now legendary viaduct turns up, Detective Sergeant Jason Smith doesn't buy it. Something else is happening here - something much darker. As Smith and the team start asking questions, the investigation takes a turn for the worse when things get much closer to home. Smith's adopted daughter goes missing, and when he finds out she was last seen close to this sinister viaduct, he fears the worst.

Smith knows he's running out of time. Will he get to the truth before the viaduct lures its next victim to their death?

Calendar Description automatically generated with low confidenceThe Twin (DS Jason Smith Book 22)   Buy from Amazon

This isn't about you. The first victim is lucky. He is mutilated beyond belief, but he is allowed to live. The second isn't so fortunate. But the words carved into her back are the same. And when a third victim is found with the same four words etched into his skin, Detective Jason Smith is wide awake. Smith manages to get two words out of the first victim before he dies. The Twin. Who is this Twin? Nobody knows, but he's about to send Smith and the team into the stuff of nightmares.

A picture containing text, sign, outdoor Description automatically generatedThe Dogwalker (DS Jason Smith Book 23)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Smith has lost count of how many times a murder investigation has been set in motion with a dogwalker finding a body. So when the mutilated corpse of a woman is found by a man taking his four-legged friend for a stroll, it doesn't sound any warning bells. But when the same man makes a second gruesome discovery, Smith's senses are on high alert. When the dogwalker stumbles upon a third brutally murdered woman, Smith knows there's more to this meek-mannered dog lover than meets the eye.
But, no matter how deep he digs, Smith can't find anything that links him to any of the victims. Is it really a case of bizarre coincidence, or is the dogwalker going to be the one who finally outsmarts Detective Sergeant Jason Smith?

A picture containing diagram Description automatically generatedThe Flytrap (DS Jason Smith Book 24)   Buy from Amazon

The Venus flytrap. - If you get too close - you're dead. A new craze is taking the city of York by a storm. An online site is daring the teenagers of the historical town to do things they never would have dreamed of before. There's talk of a mystery virus that could wipe out mankind, and the young minds are taking it all in. They don't want to die without having lived first and Flytrap.net promises to give them life before their inevitable death. Detective Smith realises he's dealing with something totally new when the first bodies turn up. A teenage boy has detonated a hand grenade inside his living room, killing his entire family. It soon becomes clear that Smith and the team aren't equipped to deal with what the city is calling a cyber attack on teenagers, and the case is taken off his hands. But, as more young people fall to Flytrap.net, Smith finally gets a break. But it's a break that will make him question whether humanity still exists. The Flytrap is a different kind of killer, and it's one that makes Smith wonder whether there is still a place for him in the world.

A person holding an umbrella Description automatically generatedThe Electrician (DS Jason Smith Book 25)   Buy from Amazon

If the lights go out - you're as good as dead. Detective Jason Smith is called out in the middle of the night to the scene of the most bizarre murder he's ever seen. A man has been shot dead and his hands have been stapled to the mains line in the distribution box. The family of the victim were blissfully unaware that anything was happening.  All the team have to go on is a witness who claims the lights in the area went out around the time of the murder. After another man meets the same fate Smith is wide awake when he hears the testimony of his 4 year old daughter. She didn't see who killed her father but the four words she heard him speak chills the marrow in Smith's bones. Ol' Sparky is back. The Electrician is in the city, and as long as Smith and the team are kept in the dark, he's going to finish what he started.

A book cover of a dark room with stairs and a door Description automatically generatedThe Cellar (DS Jason Smith Book 26)   Buy from Amazon

Something nasty is happening in York. When the bodies of three men are discovered in the cellar of a house it soon becomes clear that their deaths were not peaceful. Detective Jason Smith is itching to get back to work after a case that almost killed him and he soon realises he's dealing with something he's never come across before. With a global pandemic looming, nobody in the city is paying much attention to the homeless people who are mysteriously vanishing from the streets. But Smith senses there is something more to this. Something else is happening here, and he's not wrong. A horror, far worse than he imagined is happening in a dark place somewhere in his city and Smith is going to have to face his deepest fears to stop it.

A book cover with a silhouette of a person in fog Description automatically generatedThe Loner (DS Jason Smith Book 27)   Buy from Amazon

Sometimes, it's the quiet ones you need to be careful of. Detective Jason Smith has always considered himself to be a bit of a loner. His colleagues would agree with him. But Smith has no idea that another solitary soul is about to give him the worst nightmares of his life. Another loner is killing people in York, and this one isn't about to stop until he's caught. He kills indiscriminately, and he's extremely good at it. It's going to take a loner to catch a loner, and Smith is the only man who can stop the worst serial killer York has ever seen.

A book cover of a person standing in a dark room Description automatically generatedThe Painter (DS Jason Smith Book 28)   Buy from Amazon

The Painter is the weirdest serial killer Smith has ever come across. Detective Smith is bored. Lockdown has kept crime at bay, so when a call comes in about a brutal murder in a house not far from where he lives, he's wide awake. A woman has been brutally murdered - she has been left on display with a portrait of the scene on her lap. Two days later, Smith receives an email telling him the details of the next victim were in the painting. When two more women are killed and the emails keep coming, Smith is running out of ideas. The Painter has promised to keep on killing until Smith wakes up enough to see what has been staring him in the face the whole time. It's a case that Smith will have nightmares about for the rest of his life.

A person walking on a road Description automatically generatedThe Hitchhiker (DS Jason Smith Book 29)   Buy from Amazon

In the wake of a global pandemic, nobody in their right mind would pick up a hitchhiker.

But what if this hitchhiker is already in your car? Detective Sergeant Jason Smith has his hands full trying to come to terms with huge changes in his home life, so when he hears about a gruesome double murder, he's happy for the distraction. But what he finds in the car, a stone's throw from his house is beyond comprehension. A man and a woman have been beaten so badly they no longer have faces. No sooner has the investigation into their murders begun, another victim is taken in her car, and her injuries are much, much worse.

Smith is baffled. And when another victim is murdered he reluctantly agrees to be the face of a public appeal warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. But this hitchhiker is different - this one doesn't grab a ride by the side of the road, and this one is hell bent on killing until someone says otherwise.

A book cover of a book Description automatically generatedThe Creed (DS Jason Smith Book 30)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Sergeant Jason Smith thought he'd seen every kind of murderer there was to see.
Until now. When the body of a man is found, Smith thinks it's just one more unlucky soul in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why was his index finger severed, and shoved inside his mouth? When another corpse is discovered with a finger in his mouth, Smith is baffled.
He gets a break in the investigation in the form of an anonymous call from a woman who claims to know why the men had to die, but the trail hits a dead end when Smith realises what he's dealing with. A group of people are hell bent on killing, but every one of them has pledged a vow of silence to the creed they hold sacred. As the bodies keep on piling up, Smith wonders if the silent killers devoted to The Creed are going to be the ones to finally outsmart him.

D.I. O’Reilly Mysteries

A cover of a book Description automatically generated with low confidence Blood on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 1)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly has recently transferred to the island of Guernsey from the Special Detective Unit in Dublin and in this first instalment we see him hitting the ground running. He has barely set foot on the island when the body of a man is washed up on the shore. There is no indication of where the man came from - his hands and teeth have been removed and he has a crude tattoo of a dragon on his back. When another similarly mutilated body is found, O'Reilly and his new team realise they're on the hunt for a deranged killer.

Website, qr code Description automatically generatedLies on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Liam O'Reilly is bored. Life on the peaceful island of Guernsey is quiet, but it's too quiet for his liking. In the middle of an insurance fraud investigation he confides in his daughter and tells her he'd give anything for a juicy murder case to sink his teeth into.’ Be careful what you wish for, Dad. "Her words are still fresh in his mind when O'Reilly stumbles upon two dead bodies while investigating a fire at a container depot. The bodies have been burned beyond recognition and nobody seems to know how they ended up inside the container. Soon it becomes very clear that something sinister is happening on the sleepy island and O'Reilly is thrown into the depths of lies and deception as he delves deeper into the lives of one particular family. Everywhere he turns, he's met with lies but O'Reilly is determined to find out the truth behind these gruesome murders even if by uncovering the lies means he's putting his own life on the line.

Text Description automatically generatedFear on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 3)   Buy from Amazon

It's mid-summer on the island of Guernsey and Detective Liam O'Reilly is winding down for the day. He's enjoying a quiet drink with his daughter when a man in bike leathers walks inside the pub. O'Reilly doesn't even register him until he hears the gunshot. The man has taken out a gun and shot the barman twice in the face. O'Reilly takes hold of his daughter and throws her to the floor. "Not everything is as it seems." The gunman leaves the people inside the pub with something to think about before he calmly walks out of the pub. Then another man is shot dead in broad daylight. A figure in leathers tells the witnesses the same thing: “Not everything is as it seems."  O'Reilly and his team have no idea what is going on. The experienced Irish detective really doesn't have a clue what this is all about. When the gunman takes a third victim the people on the island start to panic. Fear is rife and confidence in the police is at an all-time low. O'Reilly knows it's only a matter of time before this madman strikes again, but he's running out of ideas. With his team working around the clock and running on empty, he knows time is running out before the most confusing killer he's ever come across strikes again.

Graphical user interface, website Description automatically generatedMalice on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 4)   Buy from Amazon

A FEUDING FAMILY AND A DEADLY SECRET. Nobody knows when it first started. The tranquil island of Guernsey is suddenly besieged by a wave of malice. Shops are getting set alight, houses are being sprayed with paint and friends are no longer sure if their neighbours are who they thought they were. When a woman is found dead, covered head to toe in paint outside a house covered in identical paint Detective Liam O'Reilly is brought into the midst. O'Reilly soon realises this is much more than a simple case of murder. And when more bodies are found O'Reilly starts to wonder if he made the right decision in coming to the Island. This is a crime mystery you won't want to miss.

Text Description automatically generatedRevenge on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 5)   Buy from Amazon

REVENGE IS SWEET.  How do you solve a murder when you're the number one suspect?  Fifteen years ago Patrick Finney was sentenced to life for the brutal murders of four women. It was one of the most high-profile cases in Irish history and one that defined Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly's career. O'Reilly was instrumental in bringing Finney down.  Now Finney has escaped from a high-security prison and he's not content to stay on the run.  He wants revenge and he's prepared to stop at nothing to get it.  Abandoned by the very people he's employed by O'Reilly finds himself in a predicament that leaves him running out of options. There is only one man who can help him. But it's a man he vowed he would never contact again, and the consequences of his association with this phantom could be far worse than O'Reilly could ever imagine.  When the hunter becomes the hunted the rules of the game have to change.  This is a chilling mystery that O'Reilly will never forget.

A picture containing website Description automatically generated Christmas on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 6)   Buy from Amazon

CHRISTMAS: The silly season. Or the suicide season? A string of suicides on the island arouses Detective Liam O'Reilly's suspicions. He understands that the suicide rate tends to increase during the festive season, but the ways in which these people have chosen to end their lives doesn't feel right. As O'Reilly and his team dig deeper, they soon learn there is much more to these apparent suicides than they initially thought, and O'Reilly realises there is a seriously damaged mind on the loose. Dubbed the suicide killer by the press, this madman will stop at nothing to get his depraved message across, and O'Reilly is the only one who can put an end to his killing spree. This festive season is one the Irish detective will never forget.

A picture containing text, outdoor, sign, sunset Description automatically generated Silence on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 7)   Buy from Amazon

January on the island of Guernsey is grim. It's dark and depressing. Detective Liam O'Reilly expected as much. What O'Reilly didn't bargain for was the eerie silence on the island in the dead of winter. And when an old lady disappears from a care home and reappears, dead on the grave of a soldier who died 80 years ago, O'Reilly has absolutely no idea what to think. When more old people are found, murdered amongst the tombs of these dead soldiers, and O'Reilly is met with silence everywhere he turns, he really has no idea why these people had to die. Then he finally hears the truth. But it is a truth that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

A picture containing text, outdoor, sign, sunset Description automatically generated Secrets on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 8)   Buy from Amazon

School reunions are not something Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly is particularly fond of. But when a man is murdered days before the reunion of a prestigious school on the island he's forced to get involved. The guests attending the reunion are reluctant to talk and O'Reilly knows not everything is as it seems. A famous actress, a celebrity chef, a controversial author, a US senator, an English MP and a whole host of other public figures happened to attend the school in the class of '89. When more guests at the reunion are murdered, O'Reilly finds himself in the middle of the most bizarre mystery he's ever encountered. It appears some secrets are worth dying for.

A picture containing text Description automatically generatedChaos on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 9)   Buy from Amazon

If there's one thing Detective Liam O'Reilly hates, it's bombs. The Irishman transferred to the peaceful island of Guernsey to escape that kind of thing. So, when random explosions start taking the people on the island by surprise, O'Reilly wonders if moving to Guernsey was such a good idea. It soon becomes clear that the bombs are a smokescreen for something else. Something more sinister is going on, and when a gang of masked men enter the equation, O'Reilly realises this has nothing to do with blowing things up. A team of armed men, dubbed the Fab Four Robbers by the press, soon capture the hearts of the people of Guernsey, and chaos hits the island. O'Reilly is facing the worst dilemma of his career. Many residents of the island are championing these thugs. This new breed of criminals disguised as John, Paul, George and Ringo are about to educate O'Reilly in the fine art of chaos.

Text Description automatically generated with low confidenceSadness on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 10)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Liam O'Reilly has reached a low point in his life. The love of his life has just been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and his daughter is about to move out of the apartment they've shared for the past year. Even his cats are bringing him down, and he doesn't think life can get much worse. But then everything is suddenly put into perspective when news of a horrific incident comes in. A man has arrived home to find his entire family slaughtered. His wife and three daughters have been brutally murdered. The family dog has also been viciously attacked. O'Reilly soon forgets his own woes, and throws himself headlong into the case. His own sadness can wait. But soon, O'Reilly realises things are rarely as they appear to be. Not all sadness is real. Sometimes there is something much deeper running beneath the surface, and as he gets closer to the truth, his own misery is forgotten when he comes face to face with an evil so dark he starts to wonder if sadness is destined to be the norm from now on.

A book cover with a rocky cliff Description automatically generatedDanger on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 11)   Buy from Amazon

The Island of Guernsey isn't exactly a favourite destination for adrenaline junkies. But it does have one thing that attracts a new breed of adventure freaks. Cliff jumping is taking off on the island, and June appears to be the best time of year for those that way inclined to choose to partake in the sport. When a young woman is killed after a jump, her death is judged a tragic accident, but when her body is retrieved, and the remains of another corpse is found on the rocks below, the Island Police are brought in. It's the last thing Detective Liam O'Reilly feels like. Still feeling the effects of a case that almost broke him, he really doesn't need this. But when he drags himself back to where he once was, and starts to understand what he's dealing with he wakes up enough to realise he's dealing with something much more dangerous than the cliffs that people are jumping off. There is someone on the Island who likes to take things to the extreme, and O'Reilly is damned if they're going to do it on his island.

A book cover of a book Description automatically generatedEvil on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 12)   Buy from Amazon

'I know about evil, because my mum is evil. She killed my dad. My mother murdered my father, and left him where she knew I would find him.' A class discussion in a prestigious school on the peaceful island of Guernsey takes a sinister turn when the body of the father of one of the students is found, exactly where the boy said he would be. The sixteen-year-old has no further information to offer the Island Police, and his mother has disappeared off the face of the earth. Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly has no idea where to look. The boy's father was stabbed multiple times, but there is nothing at the scene to suggest why this man was killed in such a horrific manner. Then another man is found dead. But when a third suffers the same fate soon afterwards, O'Reilly knows that he's up against something darker than his mind could ever comprehend. There's something evil on the island, and O'Reilly has no idea how to stop it.

A book cover of a book Description automatically generatedFire on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 13)   Buy from Amazon

In the evening of the 4th of July 2019 four dozen drones descend on Guernsey, and the peaceful island is ablaze in minutes. 48 individual bombs have caused destruction in all four corners of the island. Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly takes this extremely personally. He was enjoying his honeymoon in the far north of the island at the time. As the fire on the island continues to burn, O'Reilly can't sit back and wait for it to die down. He needs answers to why this happened on the island he now calls home. But the truth is going to take him to hell and back.

A book cover of a book Description automatically generatedMadness on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 14)   Buy from Amazon

Midsummer madness has hit the island of Guernsey with a vengeance. The residents of the peaceful island are behaving irrationally. It starts with an exclusive dinner party where two lifelong friends are hospitalized following a brutal fight, but things soon spiral out of control.
The first body is found, and Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly is sent out to investigate.
A man has been maimed beyond recognition. The injuries he has sustained suggest that there is a maniac on the loose. The killer is soon apprehended, and O'Reilly thinks that will be the end of it. But when another mutilated corpse is found soon afterwards, O'Reilly realises he's dealing with something very different to anything he's come across before.
The killer of the first victim will be the one to shed light on the sudden madness that is spreading around the island, and O'Reilly will find himself in the middle of the most disturbing case of his career.

DC Harriet Taylor Series

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated The Beekeeper (DC Harriet Taylor Book 1).  Buy from Amazon

Alice Green is a beekeeper in the small Cornish village of Polgarrow. She lives with her pet jackdaw in a beautiful cottage not far from the sea. One evening, Alice finds something strange under the hollyhock bush in her garden. The gruesome discovery will change everyone’s lives. And then Alice’s best friend Milly disappears…

Graphical user interface, website Description automatically generated The Perfect Murder (DC Harriet Taylor Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Two cats are found mutilated in the same town. Detective Harriet Taylor is reluctant to investigate, but then one of their owners is killed a bizarre way that same day.  Harriet and the team step in. The dead woman has four words written on her neck— four very ambiguous words.  Then another body turns up with the same words written on it. Harriet fears the worst —a serial killer is on the loose in the small Cornish town of Trotterdown.

A cover of a book Description automatically generated with medium confidence The Backpacker (DC Harriet Taylor Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

A girl’s body is found hidden in a remote spot of a Cornish Farm. The same farm that a young girl ran towards to escape her pursuer many years before. 

Who would kill a young backpacker who hurt nobody?  Is there a link between this and a mystery from many years ago?

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Trotterdown – DC Harriet Taylor box set   Buy from Amazon

Book 1 - The Beekeeper

Book 2 - The Perfect Murder

Book 3 - The Backpacker

DS Jason Smith & DC Harriet Taylor Series

A close up of a cigarette Description automatically generated with low confidence The Enigma (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 1)   Buy from Amazon

In Trotterdown, Cornwall a boat, The Enigma washes in to the harbour. The skipper is dead, and Harriet Taylor is brought in to investigate. But 1 dead body is not the only crime the team has to deal with. Meanwhile, further up the coast in Whitby a boat washes up on the rocks just outside the harbour. Everyone on board is dead. Whitby Police are out of their depth, so DS Jason Smith is called in to help. It soon becomes clear the cases are connected and the teams from York and Trotterdown settle down to work with each other.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Dropzone (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Brandon Stone is doing his first Accelerated Free Fall Skydive. He has done the training and his instructors are with him so nothing can go wrong…. Can it? A double malfunction and Brandon is staring death in the face. A very rare accident. Or is it?  Jason is returning to work after 3 months recovering from injuries at the hands of Boronov. Light duties? Not if Jason can help it. DC Harriet Taylor is taking a well-deserved holiday with Jon Finch that includes tandem skydiving. Out of all the planes in the country they were on the same one as Brandon.  With a detective as a witness this should be an easy case to solve. Wrong! Jason and the team need all the help they can get to unravel the lies and find the clues before more bodies turn up.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated Raven Girl (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

When the body of a man is discovered on a beach near Trotterdown, detective Harriet Taylor gets to work. It soon becomes clear that this was no ordinary murder - the man was placed in a yoga position and his pockets were filled with seashells. As more bodies pile up, suspicion falls on the residents of the old Beekeeper's house. Who are these New-Age youngsters and is their 'peace and love' philosophy merely a front to cover up something sinister? Harriet and her team are stumped. Everywhere they turn seems to lead nowhere, and they soon believe these gruesome murders will remain unsolved forever.

The Miranda Trilogy

A picture containing wall, indoor, person Description automatically generated Miranda (Miranda book 1)  Buy from Amazon

Miranda is a unique read, the first psychological thriller by Stewart Giles. Sentenced to life in a secure hospital for the murder of 12 people Miranda tells her story. In the meantime, the reader is transported back to the time of the murders as we follow DI Keene and her team along the many twists, turns and dead ends as they try to find the murderer of several unrelated victims. This is an edge-of-your-seat, adrenaline pumping read that will have you turning the pages all the way to the totally unexpected ending.  Buckle up this is a bumpy ride.

A person with long hair Description automatically generated with low confidence Mistress (Miranda book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Miranda is on the run from the Dunford Police and has managed to flee the UK.  The story continues as we follow Miranda to the USA. With the body count increasing all the time will Miranda ever be caught? This is a gripping page-turner that keeps the adrenaline pumping as Miranda manages to keep just one step ahead of DS Swales.  With numerous twists and turns all the way to the absolutely brilliant ending this is a must read for anyone who loves psychological thrillers.

Text, website Description automatically generatedMedusa (Miranda book 3)   Buy from Amazon

She's escaped from Death Row and her thirst for murder is stronger than ever before. Detective Henry Swales has other ideas. But will he be able to stop the woman who has caused him more heartache than anyone else in his life? As the sun sets on Death Row and the bodies continue to pile up, Miranda's bloodlust grows. Nobody seems able to stop her. Then she makes a mistake and is caught. And just when Detective Swales thinks it's all over, he finds himself involved in the most bizarre judicial farce imaginable. Nobody appears to know who is responsible for punishing this monster. Will Swales stand back and bear witness to this perverse justice or will he resort to his own personal form of retribution? This is a twisted psychological story that will stick in the mind for a very long time.

Stand Alone Novels

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated  The Divide (a standalone horror story)  Buy from Amazon

Five teenagers head into Dartmoor’s bleak National Park for a final adventure together before they all go their separate ways after the summer. These lifelong friends have no idea what terrible secrets this place holds. One by one they start to realise something is not quite right about this moor. Something is lurking there – some malevolent and ominously primeval force is buried deep beneath this ground waiting to emerge. The locals know the truth about what lies beneath this land, but the five friends are met with a sinister silence everywhere they turn. Then the Divide is split in two. What is unleashed is hell itself and the friends know they need to find a way out before it’s too late. Lured into an ancient forest that appears on no maps, the friends’ fight for survival begins. But who is the little girl in the white dress? With her hideously disfigured face and transfixing voice, why has she suddenly taken a keen interest in these teenagers? The Divide is the chilling tale of five friends’ fight for survival against an evil beyond comprehension.

Text Description automatically generated  The Guests (a standalone thriller)  Buy from Amazon

How far would you go to keep a dream alive? Henry and Rebecca Green worked their whole lives dreaming about a house by the sea. They thought the move to the idyllic town of Frisk would be the perfect retirement. The sea views and clement weather were exactly what they'd been looking forward to their whole lives. But Mr and Mrs Green soon realise life in paradise isn't as rosy as they thought. There are others who want what they have. They soon find out that most of the neighbouring houses are HomeFromHome weekend rentals and very soon the ideal retirement takes a turn for the worse when reality hits. The guests next door soon become neighbours from hell every weekend. When a rowdy school reunion next door ends in tragedy, Rebecca Green realises there is a way to put a stop to it all and she comes up with a plan. It's a plan so obscure and out of the box, Henry doubts his wife's sanity at first. And the detectives who are brought in to investigate the series of murders at various HomeFromHome rentals are equally baffled.