UNTIL DEATH

A DCI ROBERT KETT NOVEL

ALEX SMITH

UNTIL DEATH

Published Worldwide by Relentless Media.

This edition published in 2026.

Copyright © 2026 by Alex Smith

The right of Alex Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Hanna Elizabeth and Jacqueline Beard MBE

Print ISBN: 978-1835986288

2.20.4

www.alexsmithbooks.com

ALSO BY ALEX SMITH

The DCI Robert Kett Thrillers

Paper Girls

Bad Dog

Three Little Pigs

Whip Crack

Run Rabbit Run

Stone Cold Dead

Every Mother’s Son

Sweet Briar Rose

Jaw Breaker

Knock Knock

King Rat

Knuckle Bones

Lucky Number Seven

Unholy Saints

Truly Madly Deadly

Every Last Devil

Red Line

Cold Iron Kills

Tin Soldiers

Until Death

The DI Harrison Baird Thrillers

A Long-Dead Thing

Open Wounds

Mad Dogs

Best Served Dead

Other Books

Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

The Harder They Fall

In loving memory

of Chris Lavers

A NOTE FROM ALEX

Dear reader,

I sincerely hope this note finds you healthy and happy and hopeful, and that you had a wonderful summer.

My summer was spent the same way it usually is: writing furiously to hit a deadline! Between the school holidays, chronic pain, family drama, and an addiction to Stardew Valley on the Nintendo, I’m amazed I managed to get Until Death finished in time for the launch this week.

Mind you, I needed to get to the end of this one as quickly as possible to find out what happened. It gets dark…

I honestly can’t believe that this is the 20th DCI Kett book. I started writing Paper Girls in the summer of 2019, thinking that it would probably be a one-off, or maybe a short series. But I fell in love with Kett and his family and his team, and here we are, seven years and twenty books later. I’m astonished, and absolutely delighted, that you’re still here too. I feel like you’re family now as well!

And to be honest, we’ll need each other if we’re going to get through this case in one piece. It really does get dark…

This book is dedicated to Chris Lavers, one of my loveliest fans. Chris wrote to me last summer to say that he was battling cancer, and told me my books were helping him cope. I was devastated to learn earlier this year that we’d lost him.

Before he passed, Chris asked me to make him a promise about this book. I can’t tell you what it was, because it’s technically a spoiler! But it’s safe to say this story might have ended very differently if Chris had never got in touch.

So thank you, my friend. Wherever you are, I hope you’re settling in to read the latest Kett.

And a huge thank you to each and every one of you for still being part of the team after all these years. It means the world to me that we’ve been on this journey together. I thoroughly hope you enjoy Until Death. It’s very much a companion book to the last one, Tin Soldiers. Brace yourselves, because it gets dark.

So dark…

Did I already mention that?

Oh, and you might have noticed that the book covers are changing. That’s because Canelo are publishing new versions of the paperbacks, and I am switching the Kindle versions to match. Keep an eye out for them in the shops!

Sending the very best of wishes to you and your loved ones from here in Norwich.

READING ORDER

I know some of you will also be fans of DI Harrison Baird, and if you’re enjoying both series, this is the best order in which to read the books:

DCI Robert Kett, Books 1-17

DCI Robert Kett, Book 18: Cold Iron Kills

DI Harrison Baird, Book 1: A Long-Dead Thing

DI Harrison Baird, Book 2: Open Wounds

DCI Robert Kett, Book 19: Tin Soldiers

DCI Harrison Baird, Book 3: Mad Dogs

DCI Robert Kett, Book 20: Until Death

PROLOGUE

Saturday

The dead must not wake.

The words were in her head as soon as she surfaced, painted in neon over the vast, black ocean of sleep. She lay where she’d woken, completely still, as the last of the dream melted away. She couldn’t remember anything about her nightmare, but it had left her senseless: blind and deaf and utterly numb. The only thing she had to anchor herself to reality were those words, echoing through her mind like somebody had screamed them at her.

The dead must not wake.

And with them came a thunderous wash of panic, one that dragged her back down into the depths, which locked her diaphragm tight. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t open her mouth, she couldn’t release her lungs.

She tugged at her hands to discover that they were paralysed too, her skin taut. Her legs wouldn’t obey her command, bound fast by something she couldn’t feel, couldn’t see.

Open your eyes, she said, but there wasn’t enough air to speak the words.

Only when she lifted her head did her body respond, the weight of her skull taking her by surprise, lolling upwards with enough strength to jar her neck. She couldn’t work out why it had moved like that, as if gravity had broken, and the confusion threw fuel on the fire of her fear, a cold inferno that roared inside her.

Stop, she told herself. Calm down, you’ve been here before.

When she was younger, after the accident; she remembered it just as vividly now. The gut-wrenching terror of waking in the night and not being able to breathe, of not being able to move a finger to pull the duvet from her face, of not being able to see the creature that sat at the foot of her bed, or squatted its dead weight on her chest.

You’ve been here before.

And it calmed her enough to loosen the fist around her lungs, letting her take a shallow breath, and then another. The fear dimmed, although it still burned fiercely enough.

I can breathe. Now, I can move.

But when she tried to curl her arm, it still wouldn’t listen to her. She flexed the stubborn limb, feeling nothing, or almost nothing, a tug on the entirety of her skin, as if she was trying to pull off a wet swimming costume.

Come on, she screamed. Come⁠—

“—on.”

It was a grunt rather than a word, and it came out of her throat with such force that it gave her a fright.

“Come on,” she said, testing a voice that didn’t sound like her own. She heard it as if she was underwater, as if she was swimming in a pool of blood. “Come on, please.”

Her vision was coming back too, greying around the edges like sunrise on a rainy morning. Windows, she saw, boarded up so tightly that only a sliver of light broke through. She turned her head to the left and once again her skull felt too heavy, rolling without her permission, the way it did when she was drunk. She couldn’t seem to get it to lie back down on her pillow, as if…

It suddenly made sense, and the fire reignited inside her, an atomic bomb of terror.

She wasn’t lying down.

She was standing up.

Even in the dark, she felt the axis of her world shift, a wash of vertigo as she understood she was standing against a wall, her arms out to her sides, her head lolling against her chest like a piñata. She couldn’t feel the floor—couldn’t feel anything, still—but she sensed it there beneath her. She curled her toes, and she couldn’t tell if they responded or not. There was nothing, as if the sensory part of her brain had been burned away.

Or severed.

Oh Christ, she thought. Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ.

Had she been in another accident? Had something happened? Had she snapped her neck?

“Help,” she said. The voice still wasn’t her own, it was low and deep and guttural, the voice of a dead woman.

And once again those dream words swum inside her mind.

The dead must not wake.

“Help,” she said again, vomiting it out alongside a sob. “Help me.”

She couldn’t remember anything; she couldn’t think back past the moment she’d woken here. There was just that same sunken dark, that awful numbness. She couldn’t even remember her own name, and she blindly grasped for it, finding nothing.

“Help,” she said.

And a low groan answered her, so faint that she didn’t know if it had come from her own mouth, or from somebody else, or from nowhere at all. The panic was electric now, the voltage making her body contract, making her jaw clench so tight she thought her skull would split. A whine had broken out inside her head, a piercing scream whose perfect pitch could shatter bones like glass.

“Move!” she said, toffee-mouthed. “Move, move, please God just move!”

She tensed both arms, her skin tightening, resisting. There was no pain, and yet at the same time there was; not a physical sensation, but a warning from her brain, the knowledge that something awful was happening to her, something irreversible, something that would kill her if she didn’t stop.

But she pulled, she pulled, her skin as taut as a drum.

“Please,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

She pushed her arms and she stretched her fingers out and⁠—

Oh God.

She felt her fingertips brush against something beside her.

Another hand, she realised; stiff fingers, sharp nails.

The scream clawed its way from her throat like a knife from flesh, so wet that she choked on it. She tried to pull her hand back, but she still couldn’t move her arm, she couldn’t get away, even as that other hand reached for her, as those fingers sought out her own. Through the numbness she felt them scratch, felt them poke and prod, and when she screamed again it seemed to use all the air in the world, because she almost fell back into the breathless dark.

She turned her head, feeling the idiot weight of it. It was too dark to see much, but not dark enough to hide the outline of the person who stood beside her. A lump of shadow against the night, crucified against the same wall. Long hair hid her face like a theatre curtain. The woman’s head jerked up hard enough to hit the wall with a thump, then dropped, then rose again, and again, the wet rhythm of it like a metronome.

Every time the head rose, she saw past it, to the third person mounted there.

And the fourth, perfectly still.

“No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.”

She turned the other way, seeing the wall vanish into the dark. No more people, just wooden scaffolds like empty picture frames.

She suddenly noticed her own arm, lit by the lifting glow from the boarded windows. She studied it for a moment, unable to believe that it could be hers, feeling as detached from that dead limb as if she’d stumbled across a prosthetic.

It couldn’t be hers, because somebody had stitched the skin to the wooden frame behind her, three loops of black cord, threadworm thin, from neat, bloodless holes.

She laughed at the absurdity of it.

Then she moved her arm and saw the thread grow taut, saw her skin stretch, the crane tattoo on her upper arm distorting into a parody of itself.

The gorge rose in her throat, spraying from her lips and swallowed by the dark. She retched again, her stomach cramping. It wasn’t the first time she’d been sick that night, she realised, and a memory appeared, glowworm-dim: the club, the music, the same familiar faces gathered around her as she threw up half a litre of vodka.

Kathryn, she thought, and her name slotted back into her memories like a jigsaw piece. Kathryn Sutton.

“Kathryn,” she said, the word like a stone rattling off her teeth.

She turned to the arm again. Kathryn’s arm. Her arm.

She tensed it, the thread tightening, the skin stretching. More thoughts tumbled in, so fast and so thick that she couldn’t make sense of them.

Except one.

Somebody had done this to her. Somebody had pushed a threaded needle into her flesh and mounted her here. An artwork.

A trophy.

A groan from the lump of shadow beside her, a wet thump as her skull mashed against the wall. Kathryn reached for the woman, feeling those scratching fingers reaching back.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “We’ll be okay.”

The pain was creeping into her body, her arms throbbing, her legs too. She welcomed it, welcomed the way it shook her tired mind, the way it kept that awful numbness at bay. She was alive, she was still alive, and she was used to pain. Pain was an old friend.

She tensed her arm, gritting her teeth, just enough sensation there to feel the thread begin to tunnel out of her skin. She didn’t stop, the pain like a blade of light in the front of her skull, the scream gargling up her throat. She didn’t stop, even when she heard the blood patter on the floor. Her skin grew tight then snapped back as another stitch cut its way free.

“Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck⁠—”

Her arm tore free, sweeping in front of her like she was playing tennis. She pulled it back, struggling to control it, as if she was learning to use the limb from scratch. She put her hand to her forehead, cradling her head to give her aching neck a break. The agony was breaking through the chemical comfort of whatever she’d been given. Her blood hit the floor like a leaky tap; she could smell the thick iron tang of it over the reek of her vomit.

She didn’t have long.

She swung her free hand across her body, feeling along the length of her other arm. Her fingers were full of pins and needles, awake enough now to pluck the loops of thread that connected her flesh to the wooden frame, as tight as piano strings. No, she realised, not thread. It was wire. There was no hope in hell of cutting it, no chance of loosening the screws.

Only one thing for it, then.

She sucked in a breath, her sinuses burning, that same whine filling her hollow skull. She grabbed her forearm, pulling, yanking, tugging, screaming, as the stitch by her elbow birthed itself from the meat of her arm; not giving up, not daring to stop in case she couldn’t start again, wrenching her arm away from the wall as the second loop came free, then the third.

She fell forward, hearing a sound like tearing cloth as the stitches in the back of both legs ripped free. It slowed her fall, at least, and she landed on her elbows rather than her face. The agony was unreal, so like fire that she had to look back to make sure she wasn’t burning.

The dark robbed the world of colour, and she was thankful for that; her blood was ink, glistening black.

Not real.

She turned onto her back, squirming in the wet, seeing the wooden frame, the scraps of flesh she’d left behind, as limp as burst balloons.

Not real.

To the left of where she’d been mounted, the other crucified woman twitched and tremored, her fingers thrusting, folding, thrusting. Kathryn couldn’t see her face past the blood-matted hair.

It’ll be okay, she told her, but the words wouldn’t form. And she was going to try again when she heard it.

A dull clang: the sound of a hammer hitting metal.

Her heart was made of ice, suddenly shattered. She craned back, the dark room upside down, still hiding its secrets beneath a blanket of shadow.

Clang.

The noise again, coming from somewhere else, but somewhere close.

She rolled onto her front, her hands sliding in her own warm, greasy blood.

Clang.

Fighting onto her knees and elbows.

Clang.

She had to grab the wooden frame to pull herself to her feet, feeling her skin there—her fucking skin—and wanting to take it with her, so she wouldn’t have to leave a piece of herself in this place.

Clang.

No time. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

She stumbled to the next frame, to the woman who hung there. She ran her fingers along the back of her arms, strumming the wire, picking at the screws.

Clang.

“I’ll come back, I promise, I promise.”

The woman groaned, too weak to do anything else. It was a mercy that Kathryn couldn’t see her face.

Clang.

Another noise, a harsh cough.

Kathryn pushed away from the hanging woman like she was on a raft on a dark sea, splashing through a puddle of her own blood. She stumbled away from the wall, her feet caught in tangles of black rope. Dewdrops of grey light beaded in the boarded windows, dripping to the floor, enough to see the contours of the room, the hard edges forming themselves in the gloom. It looked like a church, the pews scattered like shattered ribs.

And right there, a door.

She reached for the handle, hearing it again.

Clang.

Too loud to be anything but right outside.

The handle turned, as if a ghost was helping her escape. She stepped to the side as the door swung inwards, almost hitting her. She locked her breath in her throat, the same way it had been when she’d woken. Through the static of her failing eyes, she saw a figure step into the room.

Clang.

He stood taller than the door, his body shrouded in a black robe. In one hand, he held a scythe that was as tall as he was, the hooked blade moon-bright even in the gloom. He used it as a crutch as he walked⁠—

Clang.

—striding through the dark to the wall where she’d hung. He was groaning as if he had been the one to wake here; a pitiful, animal sound.

Mr Death, she knew. He’d come for her. He’d see that she was missing.

She stepped around the door as quietly as she could, but every pad of her bare feet was too loud, every thump of her thrashing heart a gunshot.

Clang.

A corridor, stretching left and right, lit by the same unearthly light. No time to think, so she moved left, one hand on the filthy wall to stop herself from falling. She was still bleeding, a breadcrumb trail of blood giving her away.

Clang.

She could have been moving through mud, nothing working right, nothing doing what it should. It was like she was still drunk, or maybe inside a nightmare, or—please, God—both. She was fast asleep in the taxi on the way home from the club, or passed out on the sofa, her dreams nothing more than an echo of whatever was on the TV.

Clang.

The same noise, faster now, heading back this way.

He knew. He’d found the empty place where she’d hung, the pieces of herself she’d left behind.

Kathryn pushed on, passing more boarded windows, seeing a huge metal door peel itself from the dark.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

She grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t turn, her fingers slipping in her own treacherous blood.

Clang clang clang.

She tried with two hands, but she couldn’t get a grip, she couldn’t get the bastard thing to move.

Clangclang—

He was right there, she knew. He was right behind her. She could hear his rasping breaths, the same wretched groan. The smell of him caught in her throat, thick enough to swallow; the reek of dead things, long buried.

Not real, she thought.

Except it was. She’d met Mr Death before, a long time ago. Back then, he’d let her go, but she’d always known that one day, he’d return.

She rested her forehead on the cold door, counting to five.

Then she turned around.

Mr Death stood there, almost close enough to touch. He was so tall he had to bow his head beneath the ceiling, the shadows inside his hood shifting, tightening, as if to hide a monstrous face. The blade of his scythe tilted towards her, glinting like a razor.

“The dead must not wake,” he sobbed, as if he was mourning.

Kathryn leaned against the door, drawing a breath. The blood dripped onto her bare feet. It felt like rain, and she let herself see it: barefoot in the garden, her parents’ garden, back when she was a child, as a summer storm passed overhead.

Not such a bad way to leave the world.

“The dead can’t wake,” said Mr Death, and she heard the tears in his voice.

“I know,” she replied. “But we do.”

The words didn’t make sense, they just felt right.

He walked towards her, those black robes parting to reveal a ribcage of mouldering bones. Kathryn closed her eyes, waiting for the sweep of the blade, feeling a rush of panic; not fear, but the wild joy of reaching the top of a rollercoaster, ready for the drop.

Ready for whatever came next.

Mr Death’s robes closed around her, coffin-tight against her face, his stench pushing into her sinuses, worming beneath her skin.

Something slid into the meat of her neck, perfectly painless.

Her legs gave way, but she didn’t fall, borne up by strong arms. More fireworks exploded inside her skull, gunshot-pops louder than anything she’d ever heard. Once again, she was weightless, bodiless, timeless.

Darkness, rising and falling. Muffled sounds. The sensation of movement, as gentle as clouds scudding across the sky. Was this death? A quiet drifting?

Not so bad, just like sleep.

Then—a second later, or a minute, or a day, because time had no place here—rising music, a peal of distant laughter.

Kathryn’s soul lifted.

Heaven.

And she thought of her mum and dad, and Harriet, who had all waited so patiently. Her pugs, too, who would run wild-eyed to greet her wherever she ended up.

She tried to look, but her body, or whatever she possessed now, wouldn’t allow it. When she attempted to move her arms, she found she couldn’t. A seed of fear began to bloom, the same terror she’d felt back inside that room, back before Mr Death had come for her.

And with that fear, the laughter and song and joy she’d heard abruptly ended, replaced with something else.

A scream.

And another, tearing through the velvet peace.

Then more, until it felt like every mouth on the planet had opened in a chorus of pain and misery.

No, she tried to say. No, take me back. Take me back to the good place.

She felt herself falling, felt a thud as she hit the ground, felt the fire chew into her flesh.

She heard those same, awful, endless screams.

Not heaven, then.

And mindless, voiceless, lifeless, Kathryn Sutton dropped into hell.

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday

“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, mate.”

DS Kate Savage sat on the edge of her bed, speaking to her reflection in the dusty dressing table mirror. The curtains were still drawn, but the honey-coloured light was insistent, squeezing through the cracks and pooling on the floor like it was desperate to wish her a good morning. It had been a hot night, and there was no relief from that this morning. The top-floor flat was a sauna, her skin damp with sweat, her hair frizzy.

She had some serious work to do before the wedding.

And it hit her, the way it always did: a gut-punch of excitement and panic and joy and terror and literally every other emotion all at once.

Because she was getting married.

To Aaron.

Today.

She had to stand up because she was fizzing, her blood effervescent, her head full of static. She shook her hands in front of her like she’d just had an electric shock, jumping on the spot, trying to shake out the nerves. She didn’t understand where they’d come from. It wasn’t like she’d ever really been bothered about marriage. For years, she’d convinced herself it would never happen. Her mum and dad hadn’t exactly sold her on it, her dad splitting before she was a year old and dying shortly afterwards, her mum never really recovering. Her brother had shunned marriage along with everything else when he’d left the country.

But her gran and granddad had spent their entire life together, literally until death did them part. And she’d never known anyone happier in each other’s company, through thick and thin, than Jeff and Betsy Savage.

She opened the drawer of her bedside table, taking out her granddad’s silver police whistle. She’d stopped wearing it at work because she’d been terrified of losing it, but for years it had been her lucky charm. In the dull sheen of the metal, her face could have been his face, and the thought of it, the thought of him being here with her today, made her smile.

“Something old,” she said.

I’m not old, she heard him reply, a voice made of dust. I’m just well matured, like whisky. Or cheese.

And she missed him so much it made her feel like she had a hole cut right in the middle of her.

She looped the chain around her neck, feeling the whistle rest against her heart, beautifully cool. Big Jeff Savage would have been the happiest man in the world to see her get married, and he would have loved Duke. Big armed, big-hearted peas in a pod, those two.

There was no sign of her fiancé, but she could hear the shower running. She stretched as she walked down the short corridor, feeling everything crick and crack into place. She knocked on the bathroom door, and when she didn’t hear a reply, she opened it. PC Aaron Duke stood by the sink, wearing a towel around his waist. He was studying himself in the mirror, but there was so much steam in the room from the roaring shower that she couldn’t see what he was doing.

“Aaron?” she said.

Duke screamed, and when he whirled around, she almost screamed too. His face was completely yellow, and it took her a moment to realise it was because he was wearing some kind of cosmetic beauty mask.

“No!” he yelled, holding out a hand to block her view. “It’s unlucky! Stop looking at me!”

“I hate to break it to you, Aaron,” said Savage, wafting steam away from her face as she entered the room. “But I’m the bride. You’re the groom.”

“What?” he said, genuinely confused. He was tugging at the edges of the mask, but it didn’t seem to want to come off.

“You’d look great in my dress, though,” said Savage.

She watched him for a moment, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s stuck,” he hissed. “In my beard.”

“The facemask?”

He nodded, picking at the waxy substance that he’d plastered to his cheeks. She took a step closer and he screamed again.

“Close your eyes!”

She ignored him, stretching up on her tiptoes to take a closer look. It was like he’d dunked his face into cement, the creamy mask congealed in his beard and his hairline.

“What on Earth is this stuff?” she asked.

“I don’t know, it came from Amazon,” he said, scratching at it. “Supposed to get rid of all the spots and stuff, smooth your skin. I wanted to look nice.”

“You look like Casper the Friendly Ghost,” she told him, using a nail to pick at the crust on his nose.

“Ow,” he fussed.

“It can’t be that bad.”

It was bad. The gloop seemed to have fused itself to him.

“Thought it might help with the scars,” he said, and his quiet voice almost broke Savage’s heart. The injuries that Duke had got on what everyone now referred to as the Tin Soldiers case in Spring hadn’t healed easily, especially the cuts from the broken mirrors. The horrors of those few days, the story of how close he’d come to death, and how narrow his escape had been, were written permanently onto his skin.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You might have to shave, though.”

Duke clapped both hands to his gargantuan beard, shaking his head. His eyes were watering, but Savage wasn’t sure if it was from the pain of trying to pull the gunk from his whiskers, or because he was crying.

“I can’t shave,” he told her. “I did it once, a few years ago, and everyone said I looked like a potato.”

Savage pinched and tugged, but the facemask wasn’t going anywhere.

“A potato,” hissed Duke. “And not a sexy one.”

“Are any potatoes sexy?”

Duke nodded, still scratching at his face. Savage took his wrists, holding them.

“Aaron, I’d love you even if you were the ugliest, lumpiest potato in the garden,” she said.

“Lumpy?”

“Just calm down,” said Savage. “We’ve got all the time in the world to get ready, then we’re getting married.”

Duke took a breath.

“We’re getting married,” he echoed, the mask crinkling as he smiled. “Oh my God, we’re getting married!”

He wrapped her in his enormous arms, and she pressed her head against the muscled slab of his chest. He tightened the hug, and it seemed to wring the stress and the worry right out of her. They didn’t need to have a wedding to be happy. They didn’t need anything other than right here, and right now.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the sandalwood and shampoo scent of him.

“Are you sniffing me?” said Duke, pulling free. “Do I smell? Do I need to go back in the shower? I’m just nervous, that’s all. I always sweat when I’m⁠—”

“You’re fine, Aaron,” said Savage. “Finish getting ready. I’ll get breakfast started.”

She kissed him on the lips, tasting coconut, then she skipped to the door.

“I love you, Kate Savage,” Duke called out.

“You still need to call me Sarge,” she said, grinning back at him. “But I love you too, my sweaty little potato.”

Duke’s towel chased her from the room.

She made a feast, even though she was far too nervous to be hungry. By the time she’d set two plates of eggs, bacon, hash browns and beans on the table, Duke had left the bathroom. When she called out to him, though, he refused to leave the bedroom.

“It’s unlucky!” he yelled.

Savage gave most of her food to Colin the Staffy, who set about it like a vacuum cleaner in a bin. She showered, doing the best she could with her hair. Duke was still in the bedroom when she’d finished, sobbing, by the sounds of it, so she pulled a T-shirt and a tracksuit from the basket of clean laundry.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, one ear to the door. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” he said, although he didn’t make it clear which question he was answering.

“I’ll head over to the church,” she said. “See you there?”

“Yeah,” said Duke, sniffing.

“Good luck,” she added, leaving him to it.

They’d loaded the car last night, but she double-checked the bags, then triple-checked the dress that rested over the back seat. It wasn’t new, because even though she’d had a salary bump with her new rank of Detective Sergeant, she couldn’t bring herself to spend thousands of pounds on something she’d only wear once. She’d discovered this one in a second-hand wedding shop in the city, and Superintendent Clare’s wife, Fiona, had taken it in for her. It fit like a glove.

“Got the dress,” she said, reassuring herself. “Got the bridesmaids’ gifts, got everything else we need.”

She looked at Colin, who waited patiently by her feet.

“Got the ring-bearer.”

The dog barked, a little unsure at this change in routine, and sensitive to the stress.

“You’re not the only one,” said Savage, rubbing Colin’s head.

The venue was a church forty minutes north-east of the city, close enough to the sea that Savage could smell the salted air as soon as she climbed—oven roasted from the heat—out of the Audi. The car park was busy, which was strange given that the wedding wasn’t due to start for another four hours. An enormous white marquee had been erected in the grassy field between the round tower of the church and the woods beyond, the canvas rippling in the gentle breeze like the sails of a ship.

The Norfolk countryside was so flawless it was like they’d paid premium for it, summer flowers showing off their colours around the graveyard, the golden fields full to bursting. Swallows flitted between the fruiting trees, filling the sky with music. Savage had to take a moment to close her eyes, to let herself feel the sun on her face, marvelling at the fact that any of this could be real.

She was getting married to the love of her life. It was going to be her and Aaron for the rest of time. Pure bliss.

Absolutely nothing could ruin it.

“Oi, Kate! Get a tossing move on!”

The voice made her flinch, and she opened her eyes to see Superintendent Clare standing in the open door of the church. In the gloom, he looked like a ghoul, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared. Colin growled at him, her hackles raised.

“Sir?” she said. “Why are you here so early?”

“Why do you think?” he shot back. “I’ve got a busy schedule, Kate, I need plenty of time to prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” she said, a feeling of dread dulling the bright morning.

Clare didn’t answer, sinking into the shadows.

“Prepare for what?” she called out again.

She grabbed her dress from the back seat, jogging to the church. The dog scampered ahead, her feet spraying dirt. St Mary’s was tiny, looking almost toylike next to the soaring marquee, but the circular tower jutted proudly into the cloudless sky. The old building welcomed her through the door with a hug of cool air, echoing her footsteps as she walked into the nave.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, and she realised that the Superintendent wasn’t the only one here. The place was mobbed. DCI Robert Kett stood by the altar, helping his wife, Billie, fix a string of feathery bunting to the wall. Two of their three girls were running laps around the cramped space, chasing Colin, their screams filling the church like water. The oldest, Alice, lay on a pew, staring at her phone. DI Peter Porter preened himself in the tarnished brass of a plaque, adjusting his bow tie. They were all dressed to the nines, Kett and Porter in tuxedos, Billie and the girls in matching cream dresses and smart shoes.

Only Clare stood out. He’d managed to pour himself into what looked like the same salmon pink trousers he’d worn years ago, when they’d faked a wedding in the Whytetail case. The trousers were satin, with a decorative frill that looked like thinly sliced ham, and they revealed every nobble and bump of his lower half in pornographic detail.

“Oh God,” said Savage, putting her hands to her eyes.

“Kate!” yelled Evie, clattering over and wrapping her in a hug. Moira joined her, thumping into the back of her sister so hard she almost bowled them all over.

“Here she is,” said Kett from the front of the church. “The beautiful bride.”

Everyone broke into a round of applause.

“Enough of that!” said Clare, his voice booming off the walls. “Ignore Savage, I need you all to pay attention to me. That bunting is too low, Robert. Stop stooping and do it properly. Billie, fluff up your feathery bits.”

“Do what now?” said Billie, her eyes wide.

“And Pete, you’ve got a face like a donkey’s taint,” Clare went on. “No amount of staring at your reflection will change that, so do something useful.”

Porter turned around with a gasp of outrage, and Savage saw that the Superintendent wasn’t entirely wrong. The DI had been trying to grow his beard out in the last three months or so, and the sparse, greying fuzz did resemble the underparts of a horse. He stroked it sagely as he tried to think of a comeback, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“And you,” said Clare, turning to Savage. “What are you wearing? Why aren’t you dressed? Who’s doing your make-up?”

“Uh, I⁠—”

“I was prepared for this bunch of tosspots to do a half-arsed job, but I expected more from the main act. Come on.”

He clicked his fingers.

“The vestry is clear, start getting ready. I need to prepare my sermon.”

“Hang on, your what?” said Savage.

“Sermon,” he said, looking at her like she was an idiot. “For the ceremony.”

“We’ve, uh, we’ve got a priest for that, sir,” said Savage.

“I sent him home,” said Clare. “Dreadful man, could barely string a sentence together when I spoke with him.”

“I think he was terrified of you, sir,” said Kett.

“As I have pointed out many times, Kate,” Clare went on. “I am a fully licensed celebrant certified by the local council to conduct ceremonies. It will be my great honour to be the one to unite you both in marriage.”

“In those trousers?” she said.

“And then I have a speech to prepare,” Clare said, snapping his fingers again. “So stop dilly-dallying, Kate, and⁠—”

Savage raised her hand.

“Speech?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the explanation.

“Yes, Kate,” said Clare, gurning. “A speech. It’s what all best men do.”

“Uh,” she said again, looking to Kett for some help and getting a feeble shrug of the shoulders in return. “Aaron’s already chosen his best man, and it’s⁠—”

“Me,” said Porter, grinning through his terrible facial hair.

“Actually, he’s⁠—”

“The only thing you’re going to be best man to, Pete, is that merkin around your lips. I’m the best man.”

“I’m the best man, sir,” said Porter. “I’m obviously the best man.”

“I’m pretty sure Aaron has told both of you, several times,” said Savage, trying to keep her cool, “that Joshy is his best man.”

Both Clare and Porter stared at her.

“Joshy?” said Clare. “Who in the name of Godfrey’s toss is Joshy?”

“She’s making it up, sir,” said Porter, folding his arms. “Joshy isn’t even a real name.”

“His best friend?” she said. “From school?”

“Pah,” said Clare, waving her words away. “Joshy can get tossed. I’m doing the speech.”

“Did I hear best man discussions?” came a voice from behind Savage.

She almost couldn’t bring herself to look back, and instantly regretted it when she did. Norman Balls, the portly conspiracy theorist, owner of the Balls Knows It Alls website, and self-appointed deputy of the Norfolk Constabulary, stood in the open door of the church, dressed in a virginal white suit with what looked like a matching bonnet.

I’m dreaming, she thought, feeling a wave of relief at the idea. I’m fast asleep in bed, and this is a stress dream.

“Because I took the liberty of writing a little speecherooni myself,” said Balls, walking into the church and slumping into a pew. He flicked a badge that had been fastened to the front of his jacket. “Me and Dukey are best buddies, remember? I have this to prove it. So never fear, Balls is here.”

Clare strode towards the man, everything jiggling like kittens in a sack. The strange little conspiracy theorist’s eyes widened as he studied the Superintendent’s trousers.

“And apparently they’re there as well,” he said.

“Eyes up here,” said Clare, pointing to his face. “Any more nonsense from you and I’ll lock you in the crypt. Why are you wearing a nappy on your head, Norman?”

“It’s not a nappy,” he said. “It’s a traditional droopy velvet bonnet that⁠—”

“You’re a droopy velvet bonnet,” said Clare. “Oh, and speaking of droopy things…”

He reached into his pocket, and Savage almost screamed. When he pulled his hand out, though, he was holding a limp, salmon-coloured pouch. He held it out, and Savage did her best not to grimace.

“Fiona stitched it herself,” he said. “From the same fabric she used to make these beauties.”

He jiggled his hips.

“Nope,” said Savage.

“It’s filled with dried flowers,” Clare went on, still holding the pouch out. “Peonies, for romance and good fortune. Chrysanthemums for good luck and longevity, and orchids, for a little spice in the bedroom.”

He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Just… nope,” muttered Savage.

“Something new,” Clare said, undeterred.

She took the pouch, which felt so much like sweaty skin that she stuffed it straight into her pocket, scraping her hands down her trousers to shake off the feel of it. She was still desperately hoping to wake up.

“That reminds me!” yelled Porter, bolting to a bag in the corner of the room.

“Look,” said Savage. “Maybe we could all just…”

Porter returned, holding an enormous purple teapot. He offered it to her, but she didn’t take it.

“Something blue,” he said, panting.

“I can see that,” said Savage.

“For the wedding.”

“Right,” she said, once again looking to Kett for help. “I’m not sure what you want me to do with it, sir.”

“It’s blue,” he said, giving it a wiggle. “Ish.”

“It’s also a giant teapot,” she said. “Where am I going to put it?”

Porter frowned.

“Oh,” he said.

“So yeah,” Savage went on. “This is all lovely. Really lovely. But maybe we can get back to the plan that Aaron and I made, yeah? It’s our big day, and we took great care to make everything exactly the way we wanted it, and…”

The words dried out, mainly because Clare’s trousers had distracted her again.

“Fine,” said the Superintendent. “You’re right, it’s your wedding, and I might have got a bit carried away. It’s only…”

He paused to suck in a breath, staring at the ancient wooden rafters overhead.

“Well, you know, you’ve been a big part of my life for many years now, Kate. My duty here isn’t just of a supervisory nature, it’s a… a paternal one. This is my chance to be a father to the bride.”

“You’ve literally got six children, sir,” said Kett.

“Shut it, Detective,” said Clare. “I want you to have the most amazing day, Kate, both of you. But if you want me to back off, I will.”

“Maybe just a tiny bit?” said Savage, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart.

“Consider it done,” said Clare. “No more meddling.”

There was another knock on the door, a woman peeking through. It was Ellie, one of the staff from Wymondham HQ who also happened to be an incredible baker. She gave Savage a beaming smile.

“I’ve got your cake,” she said. “It’s in my car. I could do with a spare set of hands.”

“We don’t need it,” said Clare.

Ellie turned to the Superintendent, her smile falling away; maybe because of his words, maybe because of his trousers.

“We, uh… we absolutely need it,” said Savage.

“We don’t,” said the Superintendent. “I made you a wedding cake last night. Bloody huge thing. It’s got Bounties in it.”

Nobody seemed to know what to say to that. Even the Kett girls fell quiet.

“Lots of Bounties,” said Clare after a moment or so. He studied his fingernails, muttering a few more words. “But, you know, if you want me to stop meddling…”

Another few seconds of awkward silence.

“I’ll help with the cake,” said Porter, making his way across the nave.

“Thanks,” said Ellie, still marvelling at the Superintendent. “Nuts.”

“What?” barked Clare.

“No nuts,” the woman said, snapping her head up. “No nuts, like you asked.”

She vanished through the door, Porter following. Clare stormed after them, bellowing.

“But don’t dismiss my coconut explosion until you’ve tried it!”

The silence the Super left behind was quickly filled, Evie and Moira clamouring for attention. Savage felt exhausted already, and she shifted the heavy dress to her other shoulder.

“Cool,” she said. “I’ll go get ready, then.”

“We can help!” yelled Evie. “Can we come?”

“Please can we come?” said Moira.

Even Alice stood up, scuffing the floor with her trainer.

“I can do your make-up?”

“I don’t think so,” said Billie. “Kate’s got a lot to do, and it won’t help if you’re all climbing on her.”

“It’s fine,” said Savage, giving the girls a smile. “I could do with some company.”

“I’ll come too,” said Balls, heaving himself out of the pew and adjusting his bonnet. “I did a dressmaking course a few years⁠—”

“No!” said Savage, a little more forcefully than she’d intended. “No need for that, I’m sure there’s plenty to be getting on with here.”

“I could do with some help, Norman,” said Kett, leaning on the altar. “You don’t happen to know anything about bunting, do you?”

Balls puffed out his flabby chest as he waddled over.

“Well, Robert, it should come as no surprise that I was the Bungay Bunting Arranging Champion of both 2018 and 2021.”

Savage gave Kett a grateful smile, and he nodded back.

“Go do what you need to do, Kate,” the DCI said. “And don’t forget the most important thing: enjoy it. Enjoy every single second of it. You don’t remember the stress, you only remember the joy.”

He glanced at the door.

“Although, in this case, you’ll probably only remember Clare’s trousers.”

Savage laughed, the sound of it resonating off the walls like a pealing bell. Evie took her hand, leading her along the aisle—the same aisle she’d walk down in a few hours—to the vestry. Moira was struggling with the heavy door, and Alice helped her.

You only remember the joy.

And she would, she promised herself. She’d make this the happiest day of her life.

CHAPTER TWO

Kett walked out of the church into the glorious heat of the morning, his fingers aching from tying up the last of the bunting. He felt like he’d pulled a blanket of sunshine over himself, the sky a cerulean canvas, unbroken by anything but swifts and swallows from horizon to horizon. The air smelled vanilla-sweet from the clematis that climbed the church walls, and the pockets of pink and purple flowers that had sprouted between the graves. It was hypnotic, almost hallucinogenic, taking him back in time to the endless summers of his childhood, chasing friends across the fields during the summer holidays, before his parents had moved down to London.

It felt good. It felt hopeful.

They needed it. Not just Savage and Duke, but all of them. It had been well over half a decade since Billie had been taken by the Pig Man. Five years since he’d brought the girls to Norwich to get away from the horror of Hollenbeck. It had followed him here, of course, along with a carnival of other nightmares. Nineteen cases that had brought him to his knees, that had almost killed him.

Not to mention everything that had happened down in Suffolk during the Spring, with Harrison Baird.

Half a decade of hell. Half a decade of the most extreme crimes imaginable. The entire team had knocked on death’s door too many times to count. They needed something good, they needed something hopeful.

They needed this.

He made his way between the worn and pitted tombstones, trying to read the weather-chewed names. Wives lay buried with their husbands, with their children too, sometimes; the vast, complex glory of their lives reduced to two dates and a handful of words. He felt the same gut-punch of grief he always felt in cemeteries, thinking of his own life.

His own death.

Here lies Robert Kett. Husband. Father. Policeman.

Although if they were doing justice to the truth, they’d put policeman first. Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? He always put the job before anything else.

It was the only possible explanation for the fact he was still here.

“Cheer up, Robbie,” he told himself. He tugged at his collar, the shirt too tight, the cheap, hired tux making him sweat. “It’s a wedding.”

There were more vehicles in the car park now, a couple of white vans dancing with each other as they argued over a space. Kett spotted Porter standing by Clare’s tank-like Mercedes, his shoulders slumped and one hand to his mouth. In the warm summer light, his beard almost looked like it had grown in.

Then he got close enough to realise it was just chocolate smeared over his lips.

“You alright, Pete?” he asked.

Porter bit off a little more of the cake he was holding, his face plastered with brown icing. The air was thick with the smell of coconut, and when Kett peered past the DI into the boot, he saw a cake that was the approximate size, texture and colour of a cow pat. There was a big chunk missing.

“Yeah,” said Porter, swallowing noisily. He offered a weak smile, his teeth brown.

Kett pulled the pocket square from his jacket and handed it to him.

“You’ve got a little…”

Porter stuffed the rest of the cake into his mouth, his cheeks bulging like a hamster’s. He took the napkin and dabbed at his lips, only succeeding in making it worse.

“Gone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Kett lied. “All good. The boss know you’re eating his cake?”

“He got in a huff when he saw Ellie’s masterpiece,” said Porter. “Told me I could have it.”

“All of it?” said Kett, looking into the boot of the Mercedes again. “Because if you eat an entire wedding cake that’s been baked for sixty people, you’re going to die.”

Porter managed a smile. Kett took his time before speaking again.

“Allie and Bobby coming?”

If Porter’s shoulders had dropped any further, his knuckles would have been on the ground. He stared at his shoes and shook his head.

“Apparently, she doesn’t want to make the day about us,” he said. “Which is stupid, right? I mean, I know we’re fighting a lot. I know we’re not technically living together, and we’re arguing every time we see each other, and we probably would have argued here and ruined Kate and Aaron’s big day, but…”

He sighed, and Kett squeezed his shoulder.

“It’ll be alright, Pete,” he said. “Whatever happens, whatever choices you both end up making, it’ll be okay.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, though,” he said. “Doesn’t seem right that she didn’t want me to bring Bobby. He’d have loved it here.”

He reached into the boot, grabbing another fistful of cake.

“Pete, don’t,” said Kett.

Porter ignored him, taking a bite.

“It’s horrible,” he said, spraying crumbs. “But I can’t stop.”

“I promise you, mate,” said Kett, reaching past the DI so that he could slam shut the boot. “Nothing is going to ruin Kate and Aaron’s big day like you spewing coconut-flavoured puke over the church.”

Porter considered it for a moment, then he lobbed the rest of the cake into a nearby hedge. He dusted his sticky hands together, staring across the car park.

“Where is Duke anyway? Would be just like him to be late to his own wedding.”

“Probably hanging out with his best mate Joshy,” said Kett, earning a scowl from the DI. “Kate said he was making himself beautiful. Grooming his beard.”

“Yeah, well he’s going to have to do a pretty decent job if he’s going to beat this,” said Porter, stroking his shaggy, cake-matted chin. “Right?”

“Oh yeah,” said Kett. “You’ve got a real ZZ Top thing going on.”

Music started playing from the field beside the church, something poppy with a bass that Kett could feel through his boots. He glanced at the marquee, seeing a line of people funnelling inside carrying various boxes and items of furniture.

“Still can’t believe it’s happening,” he said. “Kate and Aaron. Crazy.”

“She’s crazy,” said Porter. “It’s like she’s marrying a bag of flour, but with less charisma.”

Kett gave him a stern look, but he was smiling.

“I’m joking,” said Porter. “I’m over the moon for them. Crazy to think that five years ago she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Remember?”

Of course he remembered. Savage had been one of the first coppers he’d met after he’d come up to Norwich. He’d worked with her on the Paper Girls case, when she was a PC, and she’d barely left his side since. She’d gone from colleague to friend, and she’d saved his life countless times along the way.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

“She’s going to be running the place soon,” he said. “Give her⁠—”

He was interrupted by the squeal of a microphone, then a shrill voice blasted through the powerful speakers, loud enough to make the air tremble.

“Testing, testing, one two three,” it said, before bursting into a song. “I eat farts for breakfast, farts farts farts farts farts.”

“Oh God, it’s Moira!” said Kett.

He broke into a run just as another voice cut in, Evie this time, serenading him as he exploded through the bushes and onto the field.

“I like big butts and I cannot lie, butts butts butts butts butts.”

“Farts.”

“Butts.”

“Stop!” he yelled as he clattered over the browning grass.

He burst into the furnace of the marquee, spotting his youngest daughters on the low stage, both holding a microphone. There was no sign of the DJ, or anyone else for that matter.

“Farts,” sang Moira.

“Stop!” roared Kett.

“Butts,” added Evie, then she screamed as he ran towards them, the sound of it almost turning the speakers inside out. “Moo-moo made me do it!”

“No, Evie made me do it!” said Moira, her words amplified.

“Drop the mics!” he shouted, and they did as he asked.

“Run, rabbit, run!” yelled Evie, and they ducked through the back flap of the tent in a tangle of arms and legs, howling with laughter.

Kett braced his hands on his hips, the sweat rolling off his forehead and stinging his eyes. It was absolutely roasting in here, the air so hot that even the flies had abandoned it, so hot that it seemed to singe his lungs. There was a drum of footsteps as Billie ran into the marquee, as flustered as he was.

“Girls!” she said, before realising that they were nowhere to be seen. “Where are they?”

“They legged it,” he panted. “I thought they were with you and Kate, sorry.”

“They said they were coming to help you,” she said.

She walked over, shaking her honey-coloured hair out before gathering it into a ponytail again. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin covered in a soft sheen of sweat, and Kett felt breathless again.

“You haven’t aged a day, you know,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Since we met. You look exactly the same. What’s your secret?”

She put her hands on his waist, and he took her shoulders. They swayed gently like there was a slow song playing.

“Oh, you know,” she said. “A stress-free life, easy kids, a husband in a safe job, no horrible things happening to us at all.”

“Well, it’s working,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She laughed, a little bashfully, then kissed him; just to shut him up, he thought. When she pulled free, she gave him a look that he hadn’t seen for a while.

“Maybe now’s the time,” she said, and he didn’t need to ask what she was talking about.

“Maybe,” he told her. “But I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I wasn’t a copper.”

“That’s just it, though, Robbie. You could do anything.”

“Wedding planning?” he said. “Or, I know, a wedding band. We could get the girls onboard. They can sing their greatest hits.”

“Farts farts farts farts farts?” she asked.

It was his turn to laugh, and he kissed her again.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and when she opened her mouth to comment, he cut her off. “Really think about it, Billie. I mean it. You’re right. Life could be this. Being right here with you, dancing in a marquee.”

She nodded, meeting his eyes in a way that made his legs weak. Then she puffed out a breath.

“But we really should move outside,” she said. “Because I’m actually dying.”

“It’s so hot,” he said.

“So hot.”

They walked into the relative cool of the outdoors, Billie sneezing as she was hit with a faceful of pollen. She headed towards the cars, and Kett went the other way, passing the DJ who was walking back from the car park. The man was the size of a house, sweating buckets in an ancient tux, a curtain of greasy black hair covering most of his face. He carried a loop of thick, black cables over his shoulder.

“Was somebody using my equipment?” he grunted, his face compacting into a fist of anger.

“Absolutely not,” Kett told him, scuttling away before the man could follow up on his interrogation.

By the time he’d entered the fridge-like church, there was pop music playing from the marquee. There was nobody in sight.

“Girls?” he yelled, his voice echoing back from the stone walls. “You in here? You better not be messing about, or so help me God…”

He glanced at the image of Jesus Christ above the altar.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

He knocked on the vestry door, waiting for an answer before opening it. Savage sat at a wooden table, peering into a little mirror as she did her make-up. Alice sat next to her, holding various brushes and eye shadows like a surgical assistant in the operating theatre. Colin the dog lay on the stone floor, either fast asleep or unconscious. Her tongue was halfway to the door.

“How’s it going?” asked Kett.

“Don’t ask,” Savage replied. “There’s a reason I don’t do this every day.”

“You seen your sisters, Alice?”

“No,” she replied. “But we heard them.”

“I think half of Norfolk heard them,” added Savage. “Farts and butts.”

“Up there with the classics,” said Kett. “Can you do me a massive favour, Alice? Go find them, and keep an eye on them?”

Alice groaned.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Kett told her. “Just for a bit, until everything’s ready. I don’t trust them not to strip the lead from the roof.”

Alice dropped the make-up on the table and scraped her chair back.

“Come and help me when you’re done,” Savage told her as she slouched away. “I can’t do it without you.”

Kett closed the door, taking a seat opposite Savage. He used his sleeve to wipe his sodden face, swallowing down a throat that was sandpaper dry. Savage grunted in frustration, pulling out a wipe and attacking her eyeliner. She only managed to smear it over her cheek.

“You’re alright,” said Kett. “There’s loads of time.”

“Is there, though?” she snapped, before immediately lifting her hands. “Sorry. I know there is. It’s just… Did you know Clare tried to send the DJ home?”

“The DJ?”

“He’s brought his bloody flute,” she went on. “He said he’s got an hour-long jazz set that he can loop as many times as we need it. Jolly Flute Clare, at my wedding. Can you imagine?”

Kett burst out laughing and, after a second or two, so did Savage.

“If he carries on like this for much longer then I’m leaving, and he can marry Aaron,” she said.

“I’ll have a word,” said Kett. “He’s just doing it because he loves you.”

Savage lifted an eyebrow.

“We all love you,” Kett went on. “So anything you need, you just ask, okay?”

She smiled at him.

“All we have to do is eat, drink and be merry,” he said.

“For tomorrow, we may die,” said Savage. “Cheery.”

“What?” said Kett.

“That’s the rest of the saying, according to the Bible.”

“Pretty sure it’s not,” said Kett, frowning. “That’s really depressing.”

Savage laughed, and it looked like she was about to reply when another noise cut into the vestry, as sharp and unwelcome as a blade.

A scream.

It didn’t quite register, because it was so alien here. Savage turned to the open door, and so did Kett, counting the six seconds it took for the scream to come again—not a cry of delight, not a childish shriek from one of his girls, but the unmistakeable sound of terror.

Kett met Savage’s eyes, and he read her thoughts before she spoke them.

“It’s not going to let us, is it?” she said. “Life. It’s not going to let us be happy.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he told her, his voice quiet. But he possessed the same sixth sense that Savage did, that they all did, that unwanted gift from the job.

Something bad was happening.

A thunder of footsteps from the nave, then Porter leaned through the door.

“Kate, stay here,” he said, out of breath.

He turned to Kett, his flushed face full of horror.

“Sir, you need to come with me, right now.”

CHAPTER THREE

Porter sprinted through the body of the church, Kett struggling to keep up with him. They were out of the door and back into the blast furnace of the sun before he managed to call out.

“Pete, wait!”

Porter wasn’t listening, bolting towards the car park like a man possessed. The air was full of screams and shouts, almost drowned beneath the volume of Kett’s pulse. People were running up the track from the direction of the main road, faces contorted with panic, tripping over themselves like they’d lost the ability to put one leg in front of the other.

“Pete, slow down,” Kett called out, the fear growing inside him. “Is it the girls?”

Porter didn’t need to answer this time. Kett passed a white van and almost ran into Alice. Evie and Moira were with her, both wide-eyed and clinging to their older sister like she was a life raft.

“Dad?” said Alice.

“Just go back to the church,” he said, still moving. “Wait for me there.”

“But—”

“Go!” he ordered. “Find your mum.”

He set off again, struggling in the heat, his shoes scuffing the dirt. Porter had run out of sight behind the tall hedges that guarded the lane, and when Kett rounded the corner he saw the DI up ahead, maybe halfway between the turn and the open gate of the church. He was with a small group of people, three of them, all crowded around another shape on the road.

Kett had to take another few steps before he understood what it was.

He slowed to a walk, scrubbing the sweat from his eyes. Two of the group were women, and both were on their knees as they tended to whoever lay there. The other figure was a short, balding man who looked like he was melting inside a set of blue overalls. His double chin was covered in an unkempt beard, his neck slick with sweat. A couple of enormous oaks stood close by, one on each side of the track, the blanket of shade not quite reaching them.

“Pete?” said Kett. “What’s going on?”

Porter glanced at him, but only for a second. He nodded to the road, and to the person who lay there.

The woman was face down on the baking asphalt, her dark hair spread about her head like a halo. From the far end of the road, it had looked as though she was wearing a red dress. But she wasn’t wearing anything other than pants and a bra, her body stripped of clothing but drenched in blood.

“Christ,” said Kett, grasping his hair with both hands. “Who is she? Is she alive?”

She hadn’t moved an inch, her body corpse-still, but Porter nodded.

“She’s alive. Just.”

Kett pulled off his jacket to try to cover her up, but one of the women who knelt there waved him away. It was Felicity Niven, the young PC dolled up in a yellow summer dress that was now smeared with blood. The fascinator was still in her hair.

“She’s been cut up, sir,” she said. “See her arms?”

The sun reflected off the blood so brightly that Kett couldn’t see anything except fire. He tossed his jacket to the side of the road and shielded his eyes as best he could, seeing the woman’s ruptured skin beneath its crimson sheen. Somebody had sliced the backs of her arms open from her wrists all the way to her shoulders, both of them, cleaving through her tattoos. They’d done the same to her legs, like they’d tried to fillet her. The blood was flowing freely. A trickle, though, not a gush.

“Can’t risk an infection,” said Niven. “The cuts don’t look deep, but they’re filthy. We need a first aid kit.”

“I’ve got one,” came a shout, and Kett looked over his shoulder to see the Superintendent jogging down the road. He passed the green first aid case to Niven, then glared at Porter like he’d brought the injured woman here himself. “Who is she?”

“How would I know, sir?” Porter replied. “I only came when I heard the screams.”

“Who was screaming?” said Clare, looking at the two women. They, in turn, looked at the man in the overalls.

“I wouldn’t say it was screaming, per se,” the man replied. “I⁠—”

“Who are you?” Clare barked at him.

The injured woman moaned softly, as if she was waking. The older woman, who Kett didn’t recognise, rested a hand on her head, leaning in to whisper gentle words. Niven had squirted a liberal dose of sanitiser on her hands and was unwrapping bandages.

“You’ve called an ambulance?” said Clare.

“Yeah,” said Porter. “But they’re twenty minutes away, at least.”

The Super turned his attention back to the man in the overalls.

“I asked for your name.”

“I’m the maintenance guy,” he replied, scratching at his beard. “Frank. I look after the church. Breaker always pops when we’re doing a big event, so Father Lewis asked me to be on-site today, just in case.”

“And?” said Kett, when he stopped.

“And what?” said Frank, gesturing at the woman. He looked angry. “I drove up, like, five minutes ago. Parked my car then heard a horn. Thought the… Thought the, you know…”

He waved a hand down the lane, towards the road, struggling to find the word he needed.

“Gate,” he managed eventually, “might have shut, does that sometimes if the hook isn’t on properly, locks itself. But…”

He stopped when the injured woman made another noise. She was moving now, her hands grasping at the road, her nails bloody. Her legs kicked like she was trying to push herself forward, but she was too weak to go anywhere.

“You’re alright, miss,” said Niven. “You’re safe. You’re safe, and I’m really sorry but… but this is going to hurt.”

She pushed the bandage against the woman’s left arm, and she let out a muffled cry of pain. Her head twisted, the hair parting to reveal the face of somebody barely out of her teens. She sucked in a breath to scream, only succeeding in coughing violently. There was more blood on her lips, and around her nose.

“You’re alright,” Niven was saying, more urgently now. “Stay still, don’t⁠—”

The woman was trying to roll over, and Niven pinned her.

“Don’t let her turn over,” she said. “She needs to stay on her front, or sit up, but she can’t get anything in those wounds.”

Porter squatted, holding the woman gently but insistently. Everyone was talking to her, a lunatic rush of voices that couldn’t have made her feel any better. A car was turning off the main road, heading towards them, and Kett started towards it.

“I’ll do that,” said Clare, walking off. “You block the other end of the track. Nobody comes through.”

The woman was fighting hard as Niven tried to stem the blood flow. She was tiny, but even Porter was struggling to hold her.

“Can you manage?” Kett asked him, and the DI nodded.

Kett pointed at the man in the overalls.

“Do not leave,” he said.

“I didn’t do anything!” Frank replied.

Kett set off back towards the church, but stopped after a few steps when he saw Savage walking towards him. She was still in her joggers, so much make-up smeared over her cheek that she looked like a Pierrot clown.

“Kate, you don’t have to be here,” Kett said. “Go back to the church.”

She didn’t reply, staring past him to where the woman bled onto the track. She put the fingers of one hand to her lips, her silver nail polish glinting.

“Is that…”

“A woman,” said Kett. “Yeah, she’s hurt pretty bad.”

“Was she hit by a car?”

Kett shook his head.

“It’s… I don’t know, Kate. I don’t know what’s going on. Looks like somebody cut her up and dumped her there. Go, and we can…”

Can what? he thought. Make it better? Save the wedding?

It was over. There was no coming back from this. He knew it, and so did Savage, who seemed to harden.

“What do you need me to do, sir?” she said.

“Honestly,” he replied, glancing at the body, then at the track. More people had gathered at the turn, trying to work out what was going on. “Tell them to stay away. Tell them to…”

“To go,” said Savage, and he saw the heartbreak in her face. She nodded, a tear winding its way through the smudge of eyeliner, turning black.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” he said.

He clicked his fingers at the maintenance guy.

“Hey, Frank,” he called out. “There another road out of the church?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Past the field, hard to see in the summer for all the hawthorn. Goes to the road.”

“Can you get a car down it?”

“Maybe,” said Frank. “Little one. Not a van, though, unless you want to lose your mirrors. I can show you?”

“You’re staying right here,” Kett told him. He turned to Savage. “Can you do that?”

She nodded, still watching the woman in the road.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Ambulance is on the way,” Kett said. “She’s cut up pretty badly, but there doesn’t seem to be anything deep.”

“Who is she, sir?”

Kett shook his head.

“I don’t know, but…”

He took a long breath and decided not to finish what he’d been about to say.

“Just clear the church, let us handle this. Get everyone out of sight, but don’t let them leave unless we know them, not until we can figure out what’s going on.”

She nodded, and he squeezed her arm.

“I’m so sorry, Kate.”

She stared at the injured woman for a moment more, one hand on the silver whistle that bulged against her T-shirt. Then she spun on her heels and jogged back down the track. Kett watched her gather the people who stood there, shepherding them around the corner. By the time he’d walked back to the injured woman, Clare had returned as well.

“Gate’s locked,” the Super said. “Nobody’s coming in. Was that Kate?”

“She’s alright,” lied Kett.

They both turned to Frank, who must have feared for his life because he took a step back, his hands up.

“I swear to the Heavenly Father, I’ve never seen her before,” he said. “I just heard the horn and walked back this way to check the gate, and I saw her lying here. Didn’t think it was a person, figured it was some twat dumping their S-H-I-T in the verge, you know? People always fly-tip round here, even though I grass them up every time. Wouldn’t have bothered, except it was a wedding and it’s supposed to look nice. I…”

He gulped like he’d swallowed a whole apple. The young woman’s groans had faded a little, her body still. Kett wondered if she’d passed out. Niven was making the most of it, carefully wrapping bandages around her arms with the older woman’s help. Porter was sitting down now, one hand resting on the woman’s back, the other trying to pull the hair from her filth-encrusted face.

“You saw her lying in the road,” said Kett. “Did you see who dropped her there? A car? Anything at all?”

Frank scratched at his throat. There were scars beneath his thin beard, maybe acne, maybe eczema. His nails were bloodied from it.

“A van, maybe?” he said, just a croak. He nodded to the road. “Going down there, to the road.”

“What kind of van?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Kicked up too much dust.”

“Big? Little? White? Black?”

“Silver,” said Frank. “Maybe white, I don’t know. Small, ish.”

“Anything written on it?” said Kett. “Business logos? Images?”

“Yeah, words,” said Frank, scratching again. “I didn’t read them.”

“You sure about that?” said Kett, taking a step towards the man. “You just said you hate the fly-tippers, that you report them. You can’t report somebody if you don’t take notice of their details, right?”

“It was too far away,” whined Frank. “Too much dust. Red words, I know that much, all over the back doors. Had a thing on the top too.”

“Thing?” said Kett. Frank spun his hand in the air.

“One of those fan things, to keep things cool.”

“Okay,” said Kett. “That’s good, that helps.”

He pulled out his phone, calling the control room.

“This is DCI Robert Kett,” he told the call handler when she answered. “I need as many units as you can spare on the North Walsham Road, on the way to Bacton, looking for a small white or silver van with red writing on the back doors and a refrigeration unit on the roof.”

“Understood,” she said.

“He’s got a ten-minute lead,” Kett went on, checking his watch. “That could put him at the coast, or halfway to Norwich. He’s dangerous, okay? Possibly armed.”

“I’ll let them know,” she said.

He hung up, seeing that Clare was speaking into his phone as well. Frank was backing away like he hoped nobody would notice.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Kett.

“I didn’t do anything!” he said.

“He’s not lying,” said the older woman. She still knelt beside the victim, one hand on the nape of her neck, her thumb stroking back and forth. Now that he was looking closely, he recognised her from HQ, one of the canteen staff. “I was in the car park. I saw Frank drive in, saw him walk over here. I followed when I heard the scream. There’s no way he could have done anything, there wasn’t time.”

“See?” said Frank, scratching at his chin with those bloodied fingers. “I told you, it wasn’t me.”

Clare ended his call.

“Chopper inbound,” he said. “We’ll get him.”

Niven was struggling up from her knees, her face creased in pain. She brushed her hands down her dress, leaving more crimson streaks. When she spoke, she was out of breath, either from the heat or from the shock.

“I’ve done the best I can. Can we turn her over? I’m worried that she might be bleeding from the front.”

Kett moved to Porter’s side, the second woman helping. Between the four of them, they managed to roll the girl onto her back. Porter sat down, resting her head on his lap, gently stroking the hair from her eyes. Niven had done a good job, the woman’s arms and legs were bandaged tightly, the linen already crimson. She was out cold, which was a small mercy. In the shifting shade from the trees, she looked younger than ever. Her skin was drenched in blood and caked in filth, but there didn’t seem to be any further injuries.

Niven probed gently with her fingers before breathing a sigh of relief.

“I think she’s going to be okay,” she said. “But she needs to be in hospital. The shock could still kill her.”

“Good work, Flick,” said Kett.

A siren blipped from the road, not an ambulance but a police car. Kett could hear other engines starting in the car park behind him as people evacuated the church. He prayed that Billie would get the girls out without them witnessing what had happened here, this poor woman left to die.

Except, she hadn’t been left here to die, had she?

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said to Clare, speaking quietly. “If you’ve sliced up your victim and you don’t want her to survive, you leave her where she is, right? Or you drive to somewhere secluded, throw her in a ditch.”

“Maybe he thought this place was secluded,” the Superintendent replied.

Kett looked back, seeing the round tower of the church peeking over the hedge like a nosy neighbour. He half expected it to duck down.

“You’d have to be blind to miss that,” he said. “Not to mention the bunting and the balloons we strung up on the gate. He must have driven in seconds after Frank, he’d have seen the dust, he’d have heard the music. No, there’s a reason he brought her here, a reason he left her.”

“The church,” said Clare. “Consecrated ground?”

“Maybe,” said Kett.

The woman groaned, curling her arms over her chest, bringing her legs up, looking like a baby in the womb. Porter stroked her head, soothing her. His hands were slick with her blood.

“Or maybe it was something else,” said Kett.

“Something else?” echoed Clare.

“The wedding, sir. Kate’s wedding. It’s some coincidence, isn’t it? What are the chances of somebody dropping a butchered woman in the grounds of the same church where the Extreme Crime Task Force is celebrating?”

He turned to the Superintendent, and finished the thought that he hadn’t dared speak to Savage.

“What if he brought her here because of us?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“There’s been an accident,” said Savage. “I’m so sorry, but we have to leave.”

She collected the huddle of people on the corner of the road, ushering them back into the car park. There were five of them, and none were police, which explained the way they barked questions at her and the panic in their voices. Music still played from the marquee, a Taylor Swift song. In the relentless heat, it seemed surreal, almost dreamlike.

“That’s all I know,” she told them. “If you came by car, I need you to return to your vehicle and wait for instructions, okay?”

“I’m still getting paid, aren’t I?” said one woman. Savage didn’t even know who she was.

“Everyone is getting paid,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Just get in your car.”

She didn’t know whether to say it or not, and decided it was better safe than sorry.

“Lock your doors.”

She spotted Norman Balls waddling out of the church, and despite the fact he was still wearing his awful bonnet, she was glad to see him.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s been an accident,” she said. “I need your help.”

“I had an idea this would happen,” said Balls.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out another badge. When he’d clipped it on, Savage saw that it read ‘Official Deputy of the Norfolk Constabulary.’

“I am always ready to discharge my duties as a police officer,” he said.

“You’re not a police officer,” she replied. “But I need you to move your car. The road’s shut off. There’s another way out on the far side of the field, a track. Park at the far end of it, and stop anyone leaving, okay? Not unless we know them.”

“Consider it done, Sarge,” he said, saluting her.

She left him to it, jogging towards the church, reciting the same words on autopilot to everyone she passed.

“There’s been an accident, I need you back in your car.”

Over and over, the monotony of it dulling the emotion, keeping the tears at bay. But she could feel them, a pressure in her eyes, a brick in her throat.

It was over. It was over before it had even had a chance to begin.

She reached the church, walking into the welcome chill, taking a moment to rest her forehead against the ancient stone wall.

Breathe, Kate, she thought. Just breathe.

“You okay?” asked a voice, and when she looked up she saw Billie standing in the shadows of the nave. Her smile had gone, and in the half-dark she looked twenty years older. “What’s happening?”

“There’s been an accident,” she said, and Billie frowned.

“Accident?”

It was pointless lying to her, because she’d been through it too. She’d been through it worse than any of them.

“Who?” Billie asked.

“We don’t know,” said Savage. “A woman, she’s…”

Billie held up a hand, glancing back. Savage moved to the side so that she could see through the door, finding the Kett girls sitting on a pew, quiet and unsure. A handful of other people waited there as well, as if they’d taken shelter during a hurricane. Savage walked into the nave, Billie making way for her.

“It’s all fine,” she said, her voice echoing. “But there’s been an accident. We’re going to have to call it off today.”

“No!” wailed Evie, aghast. “Why?”

“What kind of accident?” asked Alice, clutching her phone in both hands.

“Nothing bad,” said Savage with a smile that felt painted on.

“It’s not an accident,” said Moira, standing up and stamping her foot. “It’s Uncle Aaron. He’s broken your heart.”

“He made you cry!” said Evie, jumping out of the seat. “You’re crying.”

Moira thumped a fist into her palm.

“He’s gonna pay.”

Evie and Moira ran to the door with a war cry, Alice and Billie following. Billie searched her handbag as she went.

“Robbie’s got the keys to the Volvo,” she said.

Savage pulled the Audi fob from her pocket and handed it over.

“Get in mine, I’ll catch up in a second.”

“It’s safe out there?” asked Billie.

Savage’s silence was the only answer she needed. Billie nodded, rushing after her children. The trickle of people moved out, none of them seeming to know what to say.

Savage made her way through the empty church, grateful at least that this hadn’t happened later in the afternoon, when there would have been sixty people or so to move. She opened the door to the vestry, spotting Colin lying on the cool floor. The dog looked up, panting.

“You never liked parties anyway, did you?” said Savage, patting her thighs until the dog plodded over.

She puffed out a breath, realising that she couldn’t delay it any longer. Pulling out her phone, she called Duke.

“I’m pretty sure talking to me is unlucky as well, you know,” he said when he answered. She could hear an engine, and she was comforted by the knowledge that he was on his way. “At this rate, you’re going to jinx the whole thing.”

“I should have listened to you,” she said.

“Huh?”

“About jinxing it. Uh…”

She couldn’t go on, the brick in her throat was too big.

“For the love of… Has Clare done something?” said Duke. “He has, hasn’t he? He’s got rid of the priest, or the DJ, or… Oh, God, he hasn’t baked a bloody cake and poisoned everyone, has he?”

“No,” said Savage. “Well, yes, but that isn’t it.”

She felt that awful pressure in her eyes finally give way, the tears flowing as hot and as quick as blood.

“There’s been an accident,” she said. “A woman, she’s hurt.”

“What?” said Duke. “Are you okay?”

She loved him even more for that.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Well, you know. Not fine. But I’m safe. We don’t know who she is. I think she’s been attacked. Somebody dumped her on the track that leads up to the church. We have to cancel, Aaron. I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Kate,” he said, his voice fading a little. “You need me to call around, let people know?”

She hadn’t even thought about that. The guests would start arriving anytime.

“Yeah,” she said. “Or call Mum, Aaron, she’ll be able to sort it.”

“Just stay there,” he said. “I’m on my way. Like, fifteen minutes.”

“We’re evacuating,” she said. “It’s a crime scene, meet us…”

Something moved past the big windows of the vestry, a flash of black that was gone before she could make any sense of it. Colin had seen it too, a deep, throbbing growl filling the room.

“Meet you where?” said Duke.

“You’ll see it,” she told him. “I love you.”

“I love⁠—”

She hung up, crossing the room to the window. The vestry was at the back of the church, looking out onto the oldest part of the graveyard. None of the tombstones still stood straight, the identities of those who lay there worn into oblivion and obscurity. She angled her head, pressing her cheek against the glass just in time to see a figure in a black cloak dart around the corner of the building.

Colin barked, and Savage flinched so hard she thought she was going to headbutt clean through the window. She ducked down, giving the dog’s head a scratch, earning a lick for her trouble.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, grabbing the lead from the table and snapping it onto the collar.

Colin was happy enough to go, chuffing like a steam engine as she walked into the sun. Savage set off for the car park, then had second thoughts, turning one-eighty and walking past the door, heading for the corner of the church where the round tower reached for the heavens.

She was maybe ten yards away when Colin started growling again.

The dog planted her feet on the ground, her hackles raised. Her eyes were fixed on the curved wall of the tower, her yellow teeth bared. All Savage could see was a smattering of tombstones that peeked around the edge of the church like frightened children.

“What is it, girl?” she asked.

Colin licked her chops, then started growling again. Savage gave the lead a tug, but the dog wouldn’t budge.

“Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”

She pulled with a little more force, happier to have the dog by her side as she reached the corner. She walked into the graveyard, plunging into a narrow shaft of shadow from the tower.

The figure in black was right there, facing away from her, staring at one of the tombstones. He was wearing a long, black smock, his dark hair greased back.

Savage spluttered out a breath of relief.

“Father Lewis?” she said.

He obviously hadn’t heard her approach, because he jumped so hard he almost left the ground. He fumbled something into his pocket as he turned, his beet-red face drenched in sweat. The priest was in his forties, but he was from good stock, a thick neck and a farmer’s build evident even beneath his robes of service. He seemed out of breath, which made sense as she’d seen him run past the window just a minute or so ago. What didn’t make sense was how long it took him to fumble her name from his memory.

“Kate,” he said eventually, spitting it out. “How are you?”

“You heard?” she asked. “About the woman?”

Father Lewis didn’t react, other than to wipe a thumb over his lips.

“We’re going to have to cancel the wedding,” she said. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

He nodded, his eyes glazing over.

“Father?” she said. “Are you okay?”

The priest sniffed, nodding again, still not looking at her. Colin wasn’t growling, but she wasn’t happy, either, the ridge of her back still raised, her eyes fixed on the man in black.

“They catch up with us all, sooner or later,” he said, turning to the tombstone again.

“What do?” asked Savage, walking up to him.

He patted his pocked absent-mindedly.

“Our sins.”

“Listen,” she said, but she was cut off by a voice from behind her.

“Sarge,” it said, and she glanced back to see Norman Balls standing beside the tower. He looked like he’d been running.

“Hang on,” she said, turning to the priest to see him walking away. He was going at some pace, already halfway across the graveyard. “Father? Father Lewis, wait a second.”

“It can’t wait,” said Balls. “There’s a problem. I think the DJ is about to punch somebody. Probably me.”

Savage swore beneath her breath, watching Father Lewis as he vanished around the corner. Colin was sniffing around the tombstone where he’d been standing, and she walked up to it, trying to make sense of the faded stone. There was a picture, worn so flat that it took her a moment to recognise it.

A skull, eyes empty and teeth bared.

“Kate!” snapped Balls.

She ran her hand over the letters that had been engraved below the skull, feeling what was written there before she could make sense of it with her eyes.

“Memento Mori,” she said, sounding the words beneath her breath.

She felt a sudden shiver, and she stepped out of the shadow of the tower, the sun wrapping her in its arms like an old friend. Balls was waving her on with both hands, and Colin scampered up to him. He tried to toe the Staffy away with his bright white shoes.

“Help,” he said, although Savage wasn’t sure if he was talking about the dog or the DJ.

“Alright, Norman,” she said. “Lead the way.”

She rounded the tower again, but not before glancing back one last time, looking for the priest, seeing the tombstone.

The skull watched her go.

Memento Mori.

Remember you must die.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kett unfastened the gate, swinging it open. It wobbled like a bucking mule until it hit the fence, the rusted hinges squealing. He held it there while the ambulance turned in, trying not to inhale the cloud of exhaust fumes as it rumbled up the track.

He was about to close the gate again when a familiar pink Fiat 500 whined up the road, passing the line of frozen traffic and ducking in behind an IRV. The door opened, and Duke began the process of extracting his enormous frame from his mum’s tiny car. It was such a painful thing to watch that Kett didn’t even notice the PC’s face until he’d started walking towards him.

“Oh my God,” said Kett.

Duke’s beard had almost entirely gone, just a shadow of designer stubble around his jaw. The only part that remained was his moustache, which clung to his top lip like some kind of bushy marsupial. He was wearing his perfectly tailored wedding tuxedo, a white rose in the buttonhole, but even that failed to detract from the horror of his exposed jowls.

“Who the hell are you?” said Kett.

“It’s me,” said Duke, missing Kett’s sarcasm completely. “Aaron. Duke.”

“I know, Aaron,” said Kett. “I was… What happened?”

“I shaved,” he said.

“Why?”

Kett hadn’t meant for it to come out like an accusation, but it was hard to understand why Duke had made the decision. Beneath the beard, his face seemed far too soft, almost doughy, and huge. Kett couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“What’s wrong?” said Duke, putting his hands to his cheeks. “I look like a potato, don’t I?”

“No?” said Kett, hearing the question in his own voice. “I mean, what sort of potato? There’s lots of different kinds.”

“A sexy potato?” said Duke.

Kett had no idea what to say to that.

“I’m really sorry, Aaron,” he said.

“About my beard?”

“About the wedding.”

Duke slapped his hands to his sides, heaving a sigh.

“Where’s Kate?” he asked. “Is she okay?”

“It’s Kate,” Kett replied. “She’s always okay. She’s getting people out of the church, clearing the scene.”

“What happened?” asked Duke. “You found a woman?”

Kett nodded, swinging the gate shut again. It crashed home with a bone-jarring clang, his wrists aching as he set off up the track.

“Young woman,” he said. “Somebody cut her up pretty badly, drove her here in a van and threw her out.”

“Here?” said Duke. “Today?”

He gave Kett a look.

“Yeah,” said Kett.

They walked past the ambulance to see two paramedics crouching beside the injured girl. She still lay on the ground, although it was the older woman who cradled her head now. Somebody had draped Kett’s jacket over her body, more to shield her from the sun than to keep her warm. Her eyes were open, but she was completely out of it, staring at something nobody else could see.

PC Niven stood back, wringing her bloodied hands. There was no sign of Porter, only Clare, who leaned on the bonnet of the ambulance like it was the only thing keeping him up. The temperature seemed to have risen another ten degrees in the five minutes or so it had taken Kett to open the gate, the shade from the oak trees further away than ever.

“The worst of the injuries are on the back of her arms and her legs,” Clare said, one hand to his head to block out the sun. “We didn’t see any other wounds, not severe ones anyway. A lot of cuts and scrapes and bruises.”

“Who did the first aid?” said one of the paramedics, beads of sweat literally rolling off him as he lifted Kett’s jacket. The bandages beneath were soaked with blood, not even a scrap of white left.

“I did,” said Niven. “It was all we had, sorry.”

“You did a good job,” he said, checking the woman’s pulse. “Stemmed the bleeding. Anyone know her name?”

“No,” said Clare. “She’s…”

He turned to see Kett, and then Duke.

“Jesus Tossing Christ!” he almost screamed.

“Pretty sure she’s not,” said the paramedic.

“What’s wrong with your chin, Duke? Why is it so big?”

“Sir,” warned Kett.

The Superintendent seemed to shake himself out of his shock. He glared at Duke for a moment more before turning to the paramedics.

“We don’t know her name. We don’t know anything about her, other than that she was left here…”

He checked his watch.

“Thirty-six minutes ago. Somebody dumped her out of a van.”

“Miss,” said the second paramedic, a young woman who didn’t look much older than the victim. “Miss, can you hear me? Can you tell us your name?”

The woman didn’t stir from her stupor.

“She’s in shock,” said Niven.

“Yeah,” the paramedic said, shining a light into the victim’s eyes. “But it might be more than that. She might have been drugged.”

“Let’s get her on the bus, Soph,” said the man. “Can you all move back a bit.”

Kett retreated, clearing a space for the gurney. The paramedics lifted the woman onto it as gently as parents carrying a child to bed.

“You’re going to be alright,” said Niven. “You’re in a safe place now, you’re with friends, we’re going to take care of you.”

They started wheeling her towards the ambulance, and Kett walked with them.

“You think I can ask her some questions?” he said.

“You can try, mate,” said the man. “But she’s well out of it.”

“Nothing that will trigger her,” said the woman. “We want to keep her calm.”

The girl couldn’t have got any calmer. She watched the sky overhead with empty eyes, her mouth slack.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” said Kett. “But if there’s anything you can tell me about who did this to you, about the person who hurt you, who left you here, it will really help.”

They’d stopped at the ambulance, the paramedics ready to lift her onboard. The injured girl blinked, her bloodshot eyes rolling in their sockets, finding him.

“Wait,” Kett said as the man started to roll the gurney through the doors. “Wait a second.”

The girl was still looking at him, her chapped lips trying to work themselves around a word.

“Take your time,” he said, leaning in.

She spoke, but it was barely a breath, and he missed it.

“Say it again,” he told her.

She did, a hoarse whisper.

“Not alone.”

“Not alone?” said Kett. “Now, or before?”

She spoke again, slower this time.

“Church.”

Her eyes slid upwards in their sockets, like she was trying to look at the inside of her skull. She broke into a fit, thrashing on the stretcher, foamy blood exploding from her mouth.

“Shit,” said the younger paramedic.

She shoulder-barged Kett out of the way with surprising strength, helping her colleague get the stretcher into the ambulance. Her glare was lost behind the closing doors.

Kett walked back to the Superintendent, who was still staring at Duke’s miserable chin like he didn’t trust it to be real.

“‘Not alone,’” said Kett.

“What?” snapped Clare.

“That’s what she said, sir. ‘Not alone.’”

“Now? Last week? When?”

“I don’t know,” said Kett.

“Then it’s as useful as a cup of hot toss,” said the Super. “That’s all she said?”

“She said ‘church,’ sir.”

“We’re at a church, Robert.”

Kett nodded, listening to the panicked shouts inside the ambulance. Judging by the way it was rocking on its wheels, the fit wasn’t slowing.

“Maybe she wanted to be brought here,” he said after a moment. “Maybe she was asking for a church. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone.”

“Doesn’t help us find the person who attacked her, though, does it?” said Clare.

He eyeballed Duke’s moustache.

“Neither does that, Constable.”

Duke stroked his top lip, looking like a Bond villain with a cat.

“Stop that,” said Clare, and he did.

The noises inside the ambulance finally subsided. The male paramedic stepped through into the driver’s seat, just a blur behind the sun-bleached windscreen. The engine started, the vehicle reversing slowly down the track.

“I’ll do the gate,” said Clare, jogging after it. “You get Temu Tom Selleck here to his fiancée.”

“Temu Tom Selleck?” said Duke when he’d gone.

“Could be worse,” said Kett. “Could be so much worse. Come on.”

They made their way around the bend in the track, the church appearing up ahead. The car park was almost empty, just his Volvo, Clare’s Mercedes, Porter’s Mondeo, and a pristine Morris Traveller that probably belonged to the priest. The field was deserted, the marquee sitting empty other than the rooks who had started to explore, searching for crumbs.

Duke’s sigh was the loudest thing in the day.

“Can’t believe it,” the PC said.

“There’s other days, mate,” Kett told him. “You and Kate will get your moment.”

“Hard to imagine today getting any worse, though,” he said.

Duke had spoken too soon. As they were walking up to the door of the church, Porter stepped out. He’d taken off his bloody suit and pulled on a T-shirt, and he was so busy drying his hands on his trousers that it took him a moment to notice them both. His double-take was like something from a cartoon, and he bent over with the force of his laughter.

“Aaaaaaah!” he wheezed, absolutely howling. He pointed to Duke.

“Pete,” said Kett.

“Your face!” Porter wailed. “Why is it so big? Were you stung by bees?”

Duke glowered at him.

“Pete,” Kett said again, using the tone of voice he reserved for his girls when they were being little sods.

“Now we know why your arms are so big,” Porter went on, undeterred. He was crying with laughter, the tears glistening on his cheeks. “You’ve been skipping chin day for, like, forever.”

Duke didn’t reply. Kett thought he could hear him growling.

“And what’s that thing on your lip?” said Porter, gripping his sides like he had a stitch. “Looks like a caterpillar on a po⁠—”

“Don’t say it,” said Duke, pointing a finger at Porter. “Don’t you dare.”

“Pete!” warned Kett.

“But it does!” said Porter. “A potato!”

Duke roared like a bear, charging at the DI. It was sheer luck that Kett managed to step in his way, the big PC almost bowling him over. He planted a hand on Duke’s chest, shunting him back.

“At least I can grow a beard,” Duke said. “What’s that bumfluff on your face, eh?”

Porter’s laughter died out.

“Don’t diss my beard,” he said, deadly serious.

“That’s a beard?” said Duke, still pushing against Kett’s hand. “I thought you’d Pritt Sticked some tumble dryer fluff to your face.”

“I’ll Pritt Stick something to your face in a second,” said Porter, closing in.

“What?” said Kett.

“My beard looked better than that when I was fourteen,” said Duke. “But don’t worry, sir, you can get supplements for this kind of thing. Pills. Happens when you’re old.”

“You’re going to be old in a minute, mate,” said Porter, pressing up against Kett like he was in a bar fight.

“Enough!” yelled Kett, giving both men a hefty shove. “Pack it in, the pair of you. This isn’t the time, or the place.”

Duke sniffed, but he didn’t reply. Porter shot a look of smug victory at the PC, stroking his shaggy facial hair like a Victorian professor.

“Let’s just agree that both of your beards are equally shit,” said Kett.

They both gasped, but he ignored them, checking his watch. Nobody had seen the van, not even the helicopter, which had been airborne for fifteen minutes now. They were running out of time.

“Let’s find Kate,” he said. “There were a bunch of people here when the woman was dumped, somebody might have seen something.”

He led the way, making sure he stayed between the two men and their awful facial hair. They walked past the marquee, finding the track that Frank the maintenance guy had mentioned. It wound into a clutch of trees, the air thick with dust and pollen from a sea of nettles that grew between the trunks. Kett’s eyes watered, but it was good to be out of the sun.

“I am sorry, though, Aaron,” said Porter as they went. “About the wedding. Shit luck, mate.”

“Doesn’t feel like luck,” said Duke. “Does it?”

“No,” said Kett after a moment. “It doesn’t.”

“You’re telling me this was deliberate?” said Porter. “Somebody waited until your wedding day and dropped a body off. Why?”

Kett didn’t have an answer for that.

“Because the universe hates me,” said Duke.

“To be fair, everyone hates you,” said Porter. “The girl say anything?”

“Not alone,” said Kett. “And church.”

“This church?”

“That’s the big question,” said Kett.

Porter kicked at a stone and missed, almost tripping over on the dry ground.

“Bastard woods,” he said. “How much further?”

It wasn’t far, because Kett could hear shouts. Sure enough, when they turned a corner a couple of minutes later, he spotted a line of cars and vans parked on the track, crowded by the curious trees. Even though they were out of the sun here, it felt warmer than ever, the muggy air trapped beneath the heavy canopies.

Voices rang out, several of them speaking at once, all raised in anger.

“Be ready,” Kett said, picking up his pace.

He walked down the line of vehicles, finding a posse of people at the end of the track. Norman Balls’ enormous Rover was parked diagonally over the path, blocking the way out. There was no sign of the odd little man, but Savage stood next to the car, her hands in the air as she tried to calm the crowd. She was absolutely drenched in sweat, her face still smeared with eyeliner.

“Just stay calm, and stay quiet,” she said. “You can all leave, just as soon as we can move the car.”

One man—the DJ, Kett saw when he closed in—was right in her face, his teeth bared. He was so tall that he dwarfed Savage, his big fists clenched. His greasy hair hung in rank coils, almost reaching his shoulders.

“You can’t fucking keep us here,” he bellowed. “This isn’t right!”

“Oi!” yelled Kett as he walked up to them.

Everyone turned his way. Savage smiled gratefully, the expression lasting until she spotted Duke. Kett didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone’s eyes open so wide. Her mouth formed a silent word that could only have been:

What?

Kett moved to Savage’s side, stepping between her and the DJ and forcing the big man back.

“Pack it in,” he said. “And shut up.”

“You can’t—” the guy started, then Duke walked up, muscles and chin bulging.

“He can,” the PC growled. “So move away.”

The DJ wasn’t far off Duke’s size, but he did as he was told, flicking his greasy hair out of his face. The others moved back, grumbling as they went. Kett recognised a couple of them: one woman who’d been here to arrange the flowers, another guy who worked with the catering company.

There was a second man there as well, somewhere in his late twenties. A camcorder hung around his neck on a strap, a second camera in his hands, but he looked like somebody who could have spent more time in front of the lens than behind it. He was ridiculously handsome, a kind of James Dean, complete with the pompadour hair. His lean arms were covered in tattoos, and there was another one over his throat that looked like a woman’s face. A tall, awkward girl who couldn’t have been out of her teens stood in his shadow, bent almost double by the weight of the bag she was carrying.

Frank the maintenance guy hung back, his overalls undone to the waist, showing off his pale, hairy belly. His dark eyes moved between everyone else on the track, his tongue flicking repeatedly over his fat lips.

Everyone else had chosen to remain in their vehicle, and Kett didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved that he couldn’t see Billie and the girls.

“You alright?” he asked Savage.

She nodded, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at Duke, her eyes as big as pickled eggs. The PC looked back at her, reminding Kett of a walrus basking in the dappled shade.

“Sorry,” said Duke, although it wasn’t clear what he was apologising for.

Savage responded by lunging at her fiancé, wrapping him in a hug. Duke gathered her in his arms, pushing his face into her hair. They stayed like that for the best part of a minute, the track silent other than the chattering birds.

Kett heard the snap of a camera going off, the young photographer taking a shot. It was a nice gesture on his part, but Kett still clicked his fingers.

“No photos,” he said. “Not now.”

The man shrugged, his attention on the camera’s screen. The tattoo on his throat was definitely a woman. Kett would have assumed it was the Virgin Mary except he could see the curve of her breasts across the man’s sternum.

“Can do your OnlyFans too if you like,” he said with a grin. “You two would make a fortune, even with that lip muff.”

He thought about it for a second.

“Maybe especially with the lip muff.”

Savage pulled free, her eyes glistening. She scrubbed the tears away, then cupped Duke’s face in her hand. His moustache twitched, like it was excited to see her.

“I like it,” she said. “I like being able to see your beautiful face.”

“There’s certainly a lot more of it to see,” said Porter.

Duke smiled at Savage, resting his hand over hers for a second before they let go of each other. She turned to Kett, fanning herself with a hand.

“This is everyone from the church, sir. I let Billie take my car, the girls were getting scared. They took the dog, for backup.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You’ve spoken with everyone?”

“As much as they’ll let me. They’re all getting antsy. Probably better to do this at the station, but there’s a problem.”

She looked at the Rover.

“They were all shouting at Norman to move his car, and he panicked.”

“Panicked?”

“Yeah, he tried to eat his key.”

“His car key?” said Kett.

“Yeah, and when he couldn’t do it, he lobbed it into the woods.”

She nodded to the trees, and Kett squinted into the shadows between them, seeing a bulbous shape in a white bonnet kicking through the brambles. He was so mummified in vegetation that he resembled sweet briar rose.

“Right,” he said with a long sigh. “Pete, can you get an IRV around this side, see if we can tow the Rover out of the way?”

Porter nodded, pulling out his phone.

Kett turned to the crowd.

“You recognise these people?” he asked Savage.

“Yeah,” she said. “Mostly. I mean, they’re all here for the wedding.”

“Is it still happening?” asked the young man with the camera. The tattoo of the face moved every time his Adam’s apple bobbed, like it was talking.

“No,” spat the DJ. “Bloody thing’s cancelled. But you’re still paying for my time.”

Duke glared at him, and the guy glared back.

“Are you paying all of us?” asked the woman with the flowers. “Because they’re expensive, you know, and…”

She tailed off when she saw the look Kett was giving her.

“What’s happening?” said the teenage girl who stood next to the camera guy. “If you don’t mind me asking. Has something happened? I saw an ambulance. Somebody mentioned a woman. Who is she?”

“We can’t say,” said Kett. “Not for sure.”

“Is she okay?” the girl pressed. “It’s just that we all know each other, in the business. Weddings, we all see each other all the time. Right?”

A couple of the other onlookers nodded.

“It might be somebody we know,” she said. “I just wanted to check if she’s alright, that’s all.”

“She’s alive,” said Kett. “We think she’ll pull through. But I need to ask if any of you spotted a small white or silver van, refrigeration unit on the roof, red writing on the back doors. It was on the drive up to the church about forty minutes ago, or some of you might have passed it on the way here.”

He was met with a sea of blank faces, other than the handsome photographer, who frowned.

“You saw it?” asked Kett.

He clung to his camera like it was giving the answer for him, shaking his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said, but he was still frowning.

“What is it, then?”

He looked unsure, glancing at the people around him like he expected somebody else to answer for him.

“It’s just, I’m a photographer, right? I notice details. Like you guys do, I suppose. The intricacies of human nature, and all that.”

“And?” snapped Kett, the heat making him impatient. He wiped the sleeve of his shirt over his face to soak up the sweat, watching the man gulp and stutter his way to an answer.

“I saw a van earlier, when I was driving over here. Matches the one you just said. Red writing on the back. I only noticed because it looked so knackered.”

The teenage girl was pulling a face, but Kett couldn’t read her expression.

“You remember what it said?”

“Yeah, half the letters were missing, but it was clear enough. It was a food van, catering service, whatever you call it. Uh…”

He closed his eyes, pressed his knuckles to his forehead.

“Meats?” he said. “Something meaty. It had a phone number, but some of the numbers were missing. Uh… 0169 something?”

“01692?” said Savage. “That’s the North Walsham code. Local.”

“Right,” said the young man with a shrug. “Probably that then.”

“Meats,” said Kett, looking at the guy who’d shown up with the food. “Anything to do with you? Catering stuff?”

“No,” he said. “We’re Norfolk Feasts.”

“Where did you see it?” Kett asked the photographer.

“Not far from here,” he said. “Coming this way on the North Walsham road. Must have been around ten. I overtook it.”

The girl was still frowning.

“You see who was driving?” asked Kett.

He shook his head, his forehead concertinaing again.

“I think it might have been a woman,” he said. “Maybe a man with long hair. Or it was a hat. I don’t know.”

“That’s really fucking useful, mate,” said the DJ, sliding a stick of gum into his mouth.

“Black? White?” Kett pressed. “What colour was the hair?”

“Black?” he said. “Dark. I think, I really can’t remember.”

“You together?” Kett asked the girl who stood with him. She nodded. “You see it?”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing nervously at the man. “But I don’t… I mean, I don’t think it was any of those things that you just said.”

“Huh?” grunted the photographer, giving her an unkind look. “What are you talking about?”

“I think it was a yellow van,” she said. “And I don’t think it said Meats. It said Heats. Heating, maybe.”

Kett looked at the photographer, who rolled his eyes like he was bored of the conversation.

“Who fucking knows?” he said. “It was a van, that’s all I remember. But there were millions of them.”

“Call it in anyway,” Kett said to Savage. “We might get lucky.”

There was the sound of a car engine approaching, and Kett looked past Balls’ Rover to see an IRV pull up on the road. It was a big one, a BMW X5. The constable got out, sweating in her uniform.

“You’ve got everyone’s details?” Kett asked Savage, and she nodded. He addressed the crowd. “Soon as we’ve moved the car, you’re free to go. But keep your phones on, because we’ll be in touch.”

This earned a round of quiet applause.

“About time,” said the DJ, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Apart from you,” Kett told him. “You can stay and answer some more questions.”

“What?” he said. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like you,” Kett said, heading past the Rover.

“Blocked in?” asked the constable.

“Yeah,” said Kett. Balls was still in the woods, wailing like a banshee as he fought his way through the jaggies. “It’s not moving anytime soon. Can you tow it?”

“I can try,” she said.

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Kett.

“Thanks, but the boss needs you back,” she said, walking to the boot. “They think they’ve found your van.”

CHAPTER SIX

“He just looks wrong,” said Porter.

The fuzzy-faced DI was driving the Mondeo down a winding country road away from the church. The air con was on full blast and powerful enough that Kett was shivering in the passenger seat. Outside, the world was hidden behind steep embankments and dense trees, rural Norfolk engorged by summer, pressing in from all sides. An IRV rode in front of them, its siren on and its lights blazing. Through its cloak of dust, Savage and Duke were visible in the back seat, his arm around her shoulder.

All it needed was a tail of tin cans, and a ‘Just Married’ sign.

Clare’s Mercedes led the pack, guiding them south from the church, heading deeper into the wilderness. The helicopter was airborne, but it had been the fire service that had spotted the van, because somebody had driven it into a field and torched it.

“It’s like one of those uncanny valley things,” Porter went on, taking his hand off the wheel to itch his chin. “When you see a face that looks almost like a face, but isn’t quite right.”

“Pete, give him a break,” said Kett.

“At least we know why he’s had such a big beard for all this time,” said the DI, slowing for a junction before pulling right, following the Mercedes and the IRV onto a wider road. He accelerated, Kett’s stomach shrinking with the force of it. “He needed to hide all those chins.”

“Pete,” said Kett. “Enough. It was supposed to be his wedding day.”

“At least he’ll have time to grow it back before the photos,” said Porter, smirking.

Kett gave him a hard stare, and Porter laughed.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “He’s brought it on himself, though.”

“How’s that?”

“Because he’s Duke. Look.”

Kett followed Porter’s pointing finger to see a pillar of smoke rising over the trees ahead of them, a black scar cut into the flawless sky. They drove in silence for a couple more minutes until they left the shade of the woods, the Mondeo flooding with so much sunshine and heat that it was like somebody had set fire to it, too.

On their left was a butterscotch-coloured field, freshly harvested. Two vehicles sat on the stubbled earth in between enormous, wheeled bales of straw. The first was a fire engine. A handful of smokies stood next to it, wrestling with a hosepipe whose spray painted rainbows in the air.

The second vehicle was the van, and it was a wreck, the shell more black than white. The cab had been completely burned out, the windows shattered, the tyres blown. The paintwork was blistered past the point of recognition. If there had ever been writing on the back doors, it was long gone. The only recognisable thing about it was the boxy refrigeration unit on the roof.

The two cars in front stopped beside an open five-bar gate that led into the field, and Porter pulled up behind them, killing the engine. Kett got out, the hedge scratching at his arms and his face as he squeezed past. He reached the Mercedes just as Clare was emerging from it, averting his eyes from the man’s crotch just in time to avoid nightmares. Savage and Duke got out of the IRV, both struggling in the midday heat.

“Where are we?” asked Duke, adjusting his bow tie.

“Bacton Woods,” said Savage, nodding to the trees.

“We’re in Bacton, then?”

“No,” she said. “Bacton’s miles away.”

Duke frowned, his moustache twitching.

“With me,” said Clare, leading them into the field and bellowing to the firefighters. “Oi, you lot, how long’s it been burning?”

“About twenty minutes,” said a woman, separating from the pack and pulling off her gloves. “Little dolled up for a day at work, aren’t you?”

“Long story,” said Kett. “You got here quick.”

“We were out here already,” she said. “Thatched roof went up this morning over in Happisburgh. The van was burned out by the time we got here, would have left it to expire, except you lot said you wanted it intact.”

“Doesn’t look very intact to me,” said Clare.

The air was choked with the stench of burning plastic and diesel, and Kett had to hold a sleeve over his face as they closed in. The only positive was the spray from the hose, which hung in the air like gossamer, settling on his skin.

“Fire’s out,” said the woman. “Just trying to cool it down.”

Clare grunted a reply, flapping his arms at the other firefighters until they shut off the hose.

“Get it open, Tilly,” he said.

The woman stared at him, her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out beneath her visor.

“Please,” spat Clare.

Tilly nodded to one of her colleagues, who fetched a crowbar from the fire engine. He jammed it into the van’s rear doors, leaning on it until they popped open.

“And here’s me thinking we were going to need the jaws of life,” said Tilly.

“Hardly,” said Clare.

“Not for the van,” she said, trying not to smile. “For those trousers.”

Kett did his best not to laugh as he followed Clare to the van. The small cargo section was completely black, the chemical reek making his eyes water. He wasn’t sure if there was still heat coming off it, or if it was just the sun, but it felt like he was standing next to an open oven. He held his breath, leaning in to try to make sense of the charred interior. There wasn’t much to see, just a mound of charcoal-dark gunk in one corner that might once have been a plastic tub, and a couple of metal poles.

“Looks like the fire was started right there,” said Tilly, who lurked behind them. “Pretty basic job. Bucket full of accelerant, probably petrol.”

“Check the front, Porter,” barked Clare.

“Can’t Desperate Dan do it?” Porter called back.

“I heard that!” yelled Duke.

Porter sloped past them, and Kett joined him. They stared through the shattered window at the ruin of the seats, every scrap of fabric burned away to reveal the metal frame. The footwells were full of water.

“Something’s down there,” said Porter, squinting. “See it?”

Kett couldn’t work out what he meant, the water was too deep. He tried the door, but it was jammed.

“Anyone got gloves?” he said.

“Sure,” said Porter. “I always bring my forensic kit to a wedding.”

Kett leaned through the window, the frame cutting into his stomach as he went fishing in the footwell. The water was warm, and as black as ink. It didn’t take him long to find something, his fingers latching onto a rectangle of flat metal. He tugged it free from beneath a heavier item and pulled it out.

A registration plate, charred but still legible.

“Jackpot,” said Porter, taking it from him. He held it up for Clare to see.

“Don’t bloody stand there waving it about,” the Super snapped. “Call it in.”

Kett angled himself through the window, plunging into the frothy soup in the footwell again. He’d felt something else down there, and when he ran his hand back and forth he found it again. Something sliced across his fingers, no pain, just the knowledge that he’d been cut.

“Shit,” he said, wrenching his hand out. There was a nasty gash along the tips of two of his fingers, the blood already flowing. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He didn’t want to put his fingers in his mouth, so he shook his hand, blood splattering onto the door of the van, and over his shoes.

“We’ve got a bleeder,” shouted Tilly. “Grab the kit, Arj.”

“It’s nothing,” said Kett. “Honest.”

But his brain had woken up to the pain, and the sight of the blood—not to mention the infernal heat—was making him feel woozy. He stepped away from the van, grateful that Duke was suddenly there.

“Easy, sir,” he said, taking his arm.

“I’m fine, Aaron.”

But he let the PC hold onto him until they were clear of the mud.

“You should sit down,” said Duke.

“I’m…” he started, a rush of vertigo making the world careen around him. “I’m going to sit down, yeah.”

Duke lowered him to the ground, and he sat there on the stubbled crops, trying to stop his head from spinning. The blood was leaving his fingers at an alarming rate, the heat working against him to widen his vessels, make his heart pump faster.

“Only you,” said Clare, glaring at him. “How bad is it?”

“Just a scratch,” he said, weakly. “There’s a blade in there. A knife, or something. It’s sharp.”

A firefighter ducked down beside him, a first aid kit in his hands.

“Wouldn’t catch us rooting around in a wreck, not without gloves, anyway,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

Kett held out his hand, and the firefighter took it, tutting like a disappointed parent.

“Barely even a scratch,” he said through a smile. “You coppers cry over nothing.”

“Not crying,” said Kett, trying not to cry as the man poured some antiseptic gel on his wounds. “And they look pretty deep to me.”

“Good job the fire will have killed off any nasties on the blade,” said the man, unwrapping a bandage.

Another smokie had moved to the van window, reaching in for a few seconds before pulling his hand out. His gloves were much thicker, and in them was a vicious curved blade. It had to have been two foot long, slim and deadly, ending in a wickedly sharp point. The fire had painted it black, but there was no mistaking what it was.

“That’s a scythe,” said Savage. “The head, at least.”

“A scythe?” said Kett, squirming as the man bandaged his fingers. “Where’s the rest of it?”

He realised the answer just as Savage spoke it.

“Burned away, sir. Wooden shaft.”

“Who carries a bloody scythe in their car?” said Porter.

“Harvest time,” said Savage with a shrug. “Plenty of old-school smallholdings around here. But it’s sharp.”

“No kidding,” said Kett.

“Sharp enough to cut flesh, I mean,” Savage went on.

“I know!”

“Sharp enough to leave those injuries on our victim, sir.”

“Right,” said Clare. “Somebody bag it, prints might have been baked on. Pete, anything on the plate?”

Porter was still on the phone, but he nodded.

“One sec, Alison,” he said, looking up. “We’ve got a hit. Van’s registered to a business about three miles from here. Just south of a village called Honing. Spalding’s got the address.”

“Then let’s go,” said Clare, heading back to the road, struggling to walk quickly in his trousers. He glanced at Savage and Duke, a gruesome smile on his sweaty face. “At the rate we’re moving, your wedding might still be on!”

Kett’s fingers were burning something wicked by the time Porter stopped the car again, as if somehow the fire that had chewed through the van had spread to his hand. He probably should have gone to A&E, but the case was moving so fast there wasn’t time. The Superintendent was right. If things carried on like this, they could have their suspect before the end of the day.

Way to tempt fate, he thought.

They’d driven through Honing, a sleepy village that had barely seemed to notice them pass by, before driving once again into the shade of the woods. The IRV was in front of them, its blue lights reflecting off the grasping bushes, making Kett feel like he was underwater. They followed it for another couple of miles before it slowed to a halt.

“More trees,” said Porter. “Brilliant.”

“Thought you’d like the trees now, Pete,” said Kett, looking at his beard. “What with you being the Wild Man of Norfolk.”

He stared past the DI to see a track winding into the closely packed trees, quickly swallowed by the gloom. There was no signage, no indication at all that they were in the right place.

Kett got out, the muggy air like a hand over his face. Swarms of tiny flies assaulted him, exploring his nose and ears. He flapped his hands to chase them away.

Clare was already out of his car, Savage and Porter free of the IRV. The constable who’d been driving them was checking her Taser.

“This the right place?” asked Kett.

“No,” snapped Clare. “I just fancied a toss in the woods. We’ll go on foot, don’t want to let them know we’re coming.”

“Tactical on their way, sir?” said Savage. “If this is our guy, he’s dangerous.”

“Ed’s dragging his heels,” he said. “But we’ve got Harrington, here.”

He slapped the PC on her back so hard that she dropped the Taser.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, bending down to scoop it up. She brushed the dirt from it with a nervous smile.

“Go slow,” said Clare. “We’re just going to have a look.”

“Careful, sir,” said Kett. “You sound like me.”

Clare hoiked up his trousers, striding down the track. PC Harrington followed, the Taser back in its holster. Kett set off with the others, swallowed instantly by the dense woodland.

“If he’s here, he’s going to get the shock of his life,” said Porter. “Look at the state of us.”

He wasn’t wrong. Clare’s trousers were one thing, but Kett and Duke were in their tuxedos and dress shoes, Porter wore a T-shirt, and Savage still looked like a clown in her sweat-streaked mascara.

In the end, though, they needn’t have worried. The track curved as it went, ending at a deserted clearing in the trees. Two wooden sheds sat on opposite sides of the small space, like they’d had an argument. Somebody had tried to erect a six-foot wire fence around the treeline, but they’d done a terrible job of it. Most of the posts were diagonal, while others lay completely flat.

The only living things here were the flies, which had gathered in force.

“Robbie, Pete, the outbuildings,” said Clare, whose glowering expression was full of disappointment. “Aaron, check the perimeter, make sure nobody’s hiding in the trees.”

Kett headed for the nearest shed. It was the kind you’d find in any garden, the wooden slats green with age, the window broken. It wasn’t locked, and when he wrenched the stubborn door open, he found nothing but metal shelves inside, all of them bare.

“Empty,” he said.

He stepped back, hearing a soft metallic song from deeper in the woods, almost like wind chimes. It was so quiet that he couldn’t even tell which direction it was coming from. He crossed the clearing, heading for the second outbuilding. The ground was dirt, the dusty soil bearing no trace of footprints or tyre tracks.

“Spalding say what kind of business the van belonged to? Catering company, right?”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “That kid at the wedding was right. Registered to a wholesaler. Uh, Duffy’s Meats. Based right here.”

“This look like a meat wholesaler to you?”

Porter shook his head.

The second shed was a little bigger, and it was locked. Porter found a big stone, hammering the padlock until the bracket came right out of the mouldering wood. He opened the door, pushing his head into the dark.

“Anything?” asked Kett, hearing the same chime from deeper in the woods.

Porter didn’t reply, firing up the torch on his phone as he walked inside. Kett pressed in after him, barely room for both of them. The only thing here was a stack of binbags piled up against the far wall.

“I really don’t want to touch them,” said Porter.

“I can’t do it,” said Kett, holding up his injured hand.

“But you’ve probably already caught most of the horrible diseases from that blade, sir,” he said. “You might as well get them all.”

Kett gave him a look, and Porter muttered his way to the pile, using his shoe to kick one of the bags free. It looked far too much like a body as it slumped to the ground, its contents spilling over the rotting boards. The DI kicked a piece of fabric away from the flap, toeing it into shape.

It was a sequinned top, pink and purple.

“Somebody’s charity shop shit,” he said.

He opened the bag with his hands, delicately pulling out another item of clothing and using his torch to light it up. A dress, this time: black, shoulderless, and very short. He threw it onto the top, finding a scarf and holding it up. It was a Norwich City one, yellow and green.

“Should probably see if Duke wants this to cover his chin,” he said, before discarding it. He peered inside the bag. “Just clothes.”

“What are they doing here?” asked Kett.

He squeezed in next to Porter, using his good hand to tease open the mouth of another binbag. More clothes waited for him there, but he had no desire to rummage through them.

“Hang on,” said Porter, who was elbow deep. “Got something.”

He yanked out a small handbag, patterned black leather with a gold buckle.

“Gucci,” he said, turning it in his hands. “This thing’s worth a couple of grand, if it’s real.”

He lifted the flap, pulling out a matching purse. He dropped the bag on the pile, opening the purse and whistling.

“What?” said Kett.

Porter held it out so he could see the tightly folded bundle of cash that sat inside.

“Nobody’s giving that to the charity shop, are they?” said Kett. “Any cards?”

Porter tucked his phone into his armpit so that he could pluck out the cash.

“Nope,” he said. “Nothing else. You want me to keep going?”

“No,” said Kett. His stomach was squirming, nothing to do with the heat this time, or the fact he hadn’t eaten since last night. “Got a weird feeling about this, Pete. Let’s get forensics out here, see if they can make sense of it.”

He stepped out of the shed, scraping his head on the frame as he went. He scratched at the pain in his scalp, hearing the same dull clank from the trees. It sounded almost like the bell on a ship.

A distress signal.

“You hearing that?” he said as Porter emerged from the shed.

The DI cocked his head, nodding.

“Coming from over there,” he said, nodding past Kett’s shoulder.

They crossed the clearing again, meeting Clare on the way.

“Got a bunch of clothes in that shed,” said Kett, hooking a thumb back. “Few binbags’ worth.”

He reached the edge of the clearing, the fence here on its knees but a wall of trees barring the way. They held their fully laden branches out to block the view, the whistle of their wind-shaken canopies trying to mask the sound of the bell. He could still hear it, though, rising on the breeze then falling quiet.

He edged his way along the broken fence, squinting into the gloom of the woods.

“Where are you?” he muttered.

And he suddenly saw it, a sight so surreal that he wasn’t sure he believed his eyes. There was a building in the woods, fifty yards away, so drenched in shadow and weeds that it was almost invisible. He would have missed it completely if it hadn’t been for the wooden steeple, which rose towards the sky like the hand of a drowning man.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Hey, look at this.”

Savage jogged to his side.

“No way,” said Porter as he joined them. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah,” said Kett. “It’s a church.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

They had no choice other than to take to the woods.

Savage led the way, clambering over a collapsed section of fence and pushing into the trees. Everyone else grumbled after her, tripping through a minefield of brambles and other weeds before they stumbled, completely by chance, onto a crude path that cut through the undergrowth. The plants had been trampled flat, bigger branches splintered where they’d been snapped.

“Somebody’s been here,” said Porter, eyeing the shadows between the trunks. “Recently, too.”

The thought didn’t fill Kett with much comfort.

The church waited for them, its weathered stone body clad with ivy and perfectly camouflaged. It was bigger than it had any right to be, out here in the middle of nowhere, the wooden steeple competing with the tallest of the trees. The clanging was coming from up there, a bell moving limply in the unsettled air. The vast bulk of the structure sprouted from the ground like it had grown there, almost organic, and unsettlingly asymmetrical. The windows were boarded up, the plywood black with mould.

But the big front door stood open.

“This is probably as good a time as any to quit the job,” said Kett. “I’ll see you all later.”

“You wish,” said Clare, who traipsed behind them. “You know as well as I do, I’ll never let you quit.”

They stopped beside the church, dwarfed by it. Nobody spoke, everyone listening to the immense quiet of the woods: no birdsong, no movement, just the whisper of the air moving through the leaves, like the hiss of an angry cat. And the bell, of course.

“Bagsy not going in first,” said Duke, and Porter yelled the same thing a fraction of a second later.

“I’ll go,” said Clare, before Duke could reply. “You lot just try to keep up.”

The Super walked to the door and stopped there, one hand on the rotting frame. He leaned in, then immediately leaned out again.

“On second thoughts, Duke, you can go first.”

“What?” said Duke. “Why me?”

“You’re the expendable one,” said Clare, moving aside.

“I’ll do it,” said Kett, moving up to the door.

As soon as he entered, he understood why the Superintendent hadn’t wanted to take another step. The interior of the building was pitch black, and it reeked of age and decay. He pulled out his phone, clicking on the torch. The pathetic light made absolutely no difference to the gloom, but he could just about see the outline of a small, empty room. The rectangle of deeper darkness in the far wall could only have been a door, or maybe an archway.

“Creepy,” said a voice, right in his ear.

He almost screamed, whirling around to see Porter standing beside him.

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” he said, feeling his pulse in his tonsils.

He walked through the door to stop himself from punching the DI, dry leaves crunching beneath his feet. PC Harrington stepped in behind him, her torch much brighter, revealing the stone floor, the algae-slick walls. Kett’s ghostly shadow stretched out, entering the archway without his permission. He had to resist the urge to try and claw it back.

He inched forward, the stench of the place growing more overwhelming with every breath. It was hot in here, far hotter than it should have been, even with the summer heat. There were alcoves in the walls, the kind you usually put figures of saints in. These held other treasures: what looked like a folded jacket, a hardback book, an umbrella, a single trainer.

Kett pressed on, seeing a short corridor ahead that ended at a solid wooden door. Another arch sat in the wall to his right. He stepped through it, finding himself at the top of a staircase. The stone steps dropped into a darkness that was so thick and so deep he knew he’d drown in it.

“Nope,” he said, backing away.

“What is it?” said Porter, far too close again.

“Check the stairs, Pete,” said Kett.

“Those stairs?” he replied.

Kett walked on, trying the big, brass handle on the door. It took some convincing, but it eventually creaked open into yet more darkness. Kett lifted his phone to find another corridor, this one stretching to the left. It didn’t feel like the building could be big enough to hold it.

“I’m not going down there,” said Porter, standing at the top of the steps. “No way.”

“You’ll do as you’re told!” Clare yelled from the front of the church. “If Kett tells you to go down, you go down.”

“I’ll come with you, sir,” said Duke.

“Great,” said Porter. His voice was full of sarcasm, but it was hard to miss the relief in it too. “You go first. I don’t want your big chin pushing me down the stairs.”

They set off together, sucked into the fathomless dark of the basement. Savage watched them, her face etched with worry.

“Do you want me to go with them?” said PC Harrington.

“You stay with me,” said Kett, walking into the corridor.

The constable moved up beside him, Savage there as well. They huddled together as they walked, squeezing past a bookcase that had been pulled away from the wall at an angle. When Kett gave it a shove, he realised it was on casters. Past that, another door waited for them at the end of the corridor. This one was different. It was made of metal, and it looked brand new. Three large bolts had been set into it, all of them slotted into place.

“I don’t like this,” said Harrington, the torchlight shaking as she ran it over the door. “Shall I check on the backup?”

“Good idea,” said Kett. “Give me the torch.”

She passed it over, and he held it up while Savage slid the bolts out of their sockets. The sound of it echoed up the corridor like gunshots. Behind them, Harrington spoke into her radio.

“You want to wait, sir?” asked Savage. “A few more bodies might not be a bad idea.”

He answered by grabbing the handle and pulling the door. It opened effortlessly, and he shone the torch into another corridor, one that had no place in a building this old. The walls here were made of breezeblock, smattered and streaked with grime. There were windows in the wall to his left, all boarded up. Industrial lights had been fixed to the ceiling, thick, black cables neatly pinned.

Kett put a hand to his mouth. Even though this part of the church looked newer, the smell was much worse. It was the aroma of something rotting. The smell of decomposing flesh.

He glanced at Savage and saw that she knew it too.

There were dead things here.

“What’s going on?” yelled Clare. His voice sounded too distant, like the building had grown in the time they’d been here, its corridors stretching. “Where are you all?”

Kett walked through the door, aiming the torch ahead. Every time he shifted it, the shadows danced out of his way, alive and dangerous.

“Sir,” said Savage, and he turned back. She was standing beside the door, aiming her phone at the handle. “Blood.”

A lot of it, streaked over the metal. There was more on the floor, he realised, a crimson trail on the concrete. He followed it with his torch, seeing that it ended halfway down the corridor.

“It’s fresh,” said Savage. “Still tacky.”

Kett’s legs were made of stone, but he forced them to move. He lumbered down the corridor like Frankenstein, following the trail of blood until he reached a panelled wooden door. It was the kind you’d have in your kitchen, as out of place here as everything else. He covered his hand with his sleeve and gently pushed the handle down until it released. The door swung into the room beyond, perfectly quiet.

A rush of fetid air flowed out, enough to make him double up. The bile rose in his throat, his eyes watering.

“Bloody hell,” he grunted.

But he still walked through. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

He lifted the torch to discover that he’d finally reached the main body of the church. It was a huge space, even Harrington’s torch barely reaching the end wall. The ceiling was high, and more lights had been mounted to the skeletal rafters, far too modern for this place. The windows had been boarded, beads of sun collecting like dewdrops in the cracks. A dozen pews had been pushed towards the walls, and the stone floor looked like it had been swept, intricate patterns in the dust mixed with that trail of spattered blood.

The reek of the place was unbelievable, as bad as anything he’d ever smelled. Not just rot but shit and piss and vomit. Between that and the heat, he was close to passing out.

“You see anything, sir?” said Savage. She stood at the door with her T-shirt pulled up over her mouth.

He aimed his torch at the ground, trailing the line of blood across the centre of the room. It was a big space, and the little torch wasn’t quite brave enough to get there by itself.

“You coming?” asked Kett.

“Yeah?” Savage replied, although it took her another few seconds to move.

They walked cautiously, their quiet footsteps echoing up to the ceiling like the wingbeats of trapped birds. Kett realised that he hadn’t announced himself as police since entering the church, but nothing on Earth could have compelled him to open his mouth and call out in this space.

He was too afraid of what might answer.

The far wall peeled itself slowly from the dark, the torch picking out something that had been mounted there. Kett couldn’t figure out what it was, a Y-shaped wooden frame of some kind, maybe eight-foot tall and fixed to the stone wall. The trail of blood led right to it, so bright in the artificial light that it didn’t look real.

“What the hell is that?” said Kett, his voice a whisper. “Looks like a⁠—”

Something thumped wetly, and he shifted the torch to the left.

“Oh Christ,” he said.

An identical wooden scaffold was fixed to the wall next to the first, but this one was occupied. A woman hung from it, her arms thrust out to the side, her feet barely touching the ground. Her head hung low, her hair concealing her face and chest. Kett’s body locked tight, the torch shaking in his grip. The woman didn’t look real either, she couldn’t be real.

But her head jerked up, hitting the wall behind her with that same awful, wet thud.

“Get help!” Savage shouted, running forward. “Get an⁠—”

With an almighty crunch, the lights in the ceiling blazed on, dozens of them, enough for Kett to feel as though he’d stared into the heart of a firebomb. He screwed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the agony of it, hearing Savage cry out as well.

A sound punched into the room, a screaming voice that hollowed out Kett’s head, then filled it with barbed wire. It was music, he realised, the thrash of drums and guitars, the shrieks of a singer, all so loud it might have deafened him. He could feel the pulse of it in the very core of his body, threatening to break his bones, to crush his eardrums.

He opened his eyes as much as the lights would let him, seeing a figure in black looming over him, a skeletal face with eyes of fire.

A picture, fifteen foot high, painted on the wall.

He turned away from it, trying to see, trying to hear. Savage was right there, her shouts muted by the volume of the music.

Behind her was a gallery of the dead.

Jesus Christ, Kett said, or thought, he wasn’t sure which.

Seven of those wooden scaffolds had been fixed to the wall. Four were empty, but the three on the left all held bodies. Each victim had been strung there, crucified, dressed in nothing but their underwear. Two were obviously long dead, their skin the colour of old leather, their bodies bloated with decomposition. But the third was alive, her head shaking wildly back and forth before—thump—slamming back into the wall. She’d left a slick red stain there, as if she’d bruised the stone.

Savage ran to her, her hands over her ears. Kett tried to follow, but the music was so loud it felt like it was pushing him back. He looked around, seeing the speakers against the walls, a dozen of them pointing towards the wall like weapons. He couldn’t look at them for long because the lights were so bright.

“Turn it off!” he roared at the door, his voice completely erased. “Turn it⁠—”

The music died out, and his voice filled the void⁠—

“Off!”

—echoing from wall to wall, dwarfed by the shrill whine in his ears, by the generator hum of the lights. He flexed his jaw, lurching after Savage, his eyes still struggling with the glow. His body reacted to the stench, his stomach as tight as a fist.

Savage reached the woman, standing on her tiptoes in an effort to cradle her head. The woman was struggling, trying to pull free from the frame. Now that the room had fallen silent, Kett could hear the noise she was making, bestial grunts that were far worse than the music.

“You’re okay,” said Savage. “You’re safe, we’re police.”

If she’d heard, she showed no sign of understanding. She whipped her head back again, and Savage managed to get an arm between her and the wall, crying out in pain as it connected.

Kett turned to the door, hollering with every scrap of air in his lungs.

“We need help in here!”

He ran to the woman’s side, throwing himself into the reek of her. Thick, black cables criss-crossed the floor, a chaos of plugs and extension cords that did their best to trip him up. He grabbed the woman’s head as she threw it back again, rooting his fingers in her greasy hair, trying to hold her still. Savage was running her hands behind the woman’s arms, her face full of horror.

“She’s been…” she started, ducking down to her bare legs. “They’re stitches,” she went on. “God, sir, she’s been stitched here. It’s wire, in her skin, I can’t get her free.”

Clare came barrelling through the door, making it a dozen yards into the room before falling still. He covered his face against the lights, peeking through his fingers like a frightened child until Kett screamed at him.

“We need an ambulance, sir. Now!”

Clare still didn’t move.

“Now!” Kett roared again, struggling to hold the woman’s head as she fought him.

The Superintendent turned, falling back through the door.

“And wire cutters,” Kett called after him, too late. “Shit.”

Savage was upright again, using one hand to pull the woman’s hair to one side, resting the other against the hollow of her cheek.

“You’re okay,” she said. “Please, you’re safe, we’re not going to hurt you.”

Kett caught a glimpse of a face through the curtain of hair: so thin that her bones pressed against her skin, her mouth encrusted with filth and old food, bloodshot eyes lost in deep hollows. There was a tattoo on her neck, a figure of eight that had been almost erased by the grime. When she opened her mouth, two of her teeth were missing.

The whine in his ears had become a shriek inside his skull, the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

“You have to stay calm, okay?” said Savage. “What’s your name? Your name?”

The woman seemed to settle for a moment, blinking hard as she stared at Savage. She was making sounds in her throat, but they were nowhere close to being words.

“I’m Kate,” Savage went on, her voice laced with hysteria. “What’s your name?”

It looked, for a second, like she might answer. Then Duke came clattering into the room like a charging bull.

“Kate?” he shouted.

The woman’s mouth opened, a whisper of a scream carving its way up her throat. She stared at Duke like he was the Devil, her eyes so wide they might have rolled right out of their sockets.

“Kate?” Duke said again, running towards them. Porter was there too, clinging onto the door like a sailor in a storm.

The woman started thrashing, as much as her stitches would allow. She rammed her head back, and Kett lost his hold on her, her skull cracking into the stone with the sound of a wooden plank splintering.

“Fuck,” said Kett. “Aaron, get out of here! You too, Pete.”

“What?” said Duke, halfway across the room.

“Go!” shouted Savage. “She’s scared of you. Find some wire cutters, scissors, anything.”

Duke looked for a moment like he was going to keep coming, then he doubled back, pushing past Porter and running into the corridor. It didn’t matter, Kett realised, because the woman had managed to knock herself out, or worse. She hung limp from her scaffold, her loose skin pulled into circus tent ridges by the wire that had been stitched there.

“Hey,” said Savage, still stroking her face. She was sobbing, and Kett didn’t blame her. He was close to it too. “Hey, you’re okay,” she said. “Please be okay.”

She looked at Kett, her face tight with desperation. He let go of the woman’s head, working his fingers against her skinny throat, pressing them there, waiting for a pulse.

Finding one.

“She’s okay,” he said. “She’s alive. We need to get her down before she wakes up. I’ll check on the⁠—”

“Don’t,” said Savage, still looking at him. “Don’t leave.”

He nodded, putting a hand to the wall and closing his eyes against the unbearable brightness of the lights.

“I won’t,” he told her. “I’m right here, Kate. Right here.”

“At least we know what she meant,” said Savage. “The woman at my wedding.”

“Church,” said Kett. “Not alone.”

“She was halfway dead, and she still tried to help,” said Savage.

Kett didn’t want to open his eyes again, but not seeing was somehow worse than seeing. He squinted across the room as the overheads did their best to blowtorch his retinas.

The painted figure looked back at him from the wall, its skeletal face grinning beneath its hood, the eyes burning. It was the Grim Reaper, he realised, a scythe curving over its head, the blade dripping with blood.

Painted next to it in angry red letters, each two-foot tall, were five words:

The dead must not wake.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The woman didn’t wake.

She hung from her scaffold, her breaths so shallow that Kett had to keep leaning in to make sure she was still breathing.

The ten minutes it took Duke to return felt like an eternity, mainly because Kett used the time to check the other two victims. They were suspended from their Y-shaped frames like sculptures in an exhibition of decaying flesh, a horror movie centrepiece lit up in relentless detail by the fierce halogen bulbs. There was no point in checking either for a pulse, but Kett did it anyway, almost unloading his empty stomach at the feel of their cold, fly-bloated skin. They were long dead, so far gone that he couldn’t even be sure if they had been men or women.

Duke reappeared with a clatter of feet, hovering breathless in the door until Savage waved him in. He had something clasped in his hand, and when he was close enough Kett saw it was a set of rusting pliers.

“Best I could do,” he said, squinting against the fierce glow from overhead. “Found them in the basement.”

The woman didn’t wake, even as Savage worked to loosen her stitches. Kett did his best to help, pulling her skin out of the way as the tool picked at the wire. It was an impossible job, the blood flowing after the first few seconds, obscuring the wounds, making the pliers slip and slide. Savage lost her grip on them, and they fell, landing in a puddle of waste.

“Shit,” she said. “It won’t come out.”

“I’ll try and find something else,” said Duke, heading for the door.

“Leave her,” Kett said when the PC had gone. “We’re going to do more harm than good, Kate. The paramedics will be here soon.”

“I can’t leave her,” said Savage, desperate. “I can’t just leave her here.”

“She’s going to be okay,” said Kett. “She’s safe. We got to her in time.”

But nothing in Savage’s expression said she agreed with him. She held onto the woman’s hand, gently squeezing her limp fingers.

Kett gave them space, studying the empty scaffold that hung beside her. With the rush of horror and panic at finding the woman alive, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. But in the uneasy quiet, and in the glare of the lights, he noticed the thick, silver wire that was screwed into the wood, stained with blood. It hung in loops, threaded through scraps of fabric.

He leaned closer, realising that it wasn’t cloth at all.

It was skin.

“She pulled herself free,” said Savage, who had figured it out before he had. “The woman at our wedding. The wounds on her arms and legs, it’s where the wire tore her skin. She pulled herself free from that thing.”

Kett didn’t think he could open his mouth without throwing up, so he clamped his lips between his teeth, hard enough to hurt.

“Do you have any idea what kind of strength it takes to do that?” Savage went on.

She could be wrong, thought Kett. Because there was every chance somebody else had done it. The person who’d kept her here. What if he’d ripped her free and dragged her to his van? Had he done that, then driven her to the church?

It didn’t make any sense.

The lights in the rafters suddenly snapped off. Kett felt his entire body contract in shock at his sudden blindness, staying tense until the torch on Savage’s phone clicked on. It felt like a nail had been pulled out of his eyes, and he tried to blink away the fire that had been burned into his retinas. A minute or so later, Porter ran into the room, a bigger torch gripped in his hand. It didn’t help that he beamed it right into Kett’s face, but only for a second.

“Breaker’s in the basement,” he said, looking up. “Brand new, looks like a professional job. Cables lead up here.”

“Where’s the power coming from, though?” said Kett. “I didn’t see a line outside, and there’s no way it’s underground. We’re in the middle of a forest.”

“I’ll go check,” said Porter. “You seen the boss?”

Nobody had spotted Clare since he’d bolted, and Kett didn’t blame him. The church was a house of horrors. It would live inside their nightmares until the day they died.

“Check on the ambulance, will you, Pete?”

Porter nodded, moved through the door, then leaned back.

“You want me to stay, sir?” he said. “I can take over here if you like?”

As tempting as it was, Kett didn’t want to leave Savage, not until the woman was safely down. Porter gave him a sympathetic nod as he ran off, only to appear one more time.

“They’re here,” he called out.

Kett assumed he’d meant the paramedics, but it was two firefighters who walked through the door, the same ones who’d been at the burning van. One was Tilly, who walked to them with a steadfast determination, her eyes steely. The other was Arj, the man who’d treated Kett’s fingers. He made it halfway into the awful stench of the place before spinning around and vomiting, almost dropping the black case he was carrying. He gagged twice more, wiped his mouth with his free hand, then carried on.

“Sorry,” he croaked, looking at the injured woman for less than a second before turning away.

“Clare told us it was bad,” said Tilly, her jaw set as she took in the scene. “Didn’t come anywhere close, though. Somebody did this to her?”

The question didn’t need answering, but Kett nodded anyway.

“The two at the end are dead, but this woman’s alive,” he said. “She’s been…”

“Stitched,” said Savage when he faltered. “Wire through the skin, through her muscle, I think, fixed into metal rings in the frame. Back of both arms and both legs. You got anything that can get through it?”

Arj knelt down, wiping his mouth again before opening the case. It was packed with tools, and he selected a slim set of wire cutters, handing them to Tilly.

“I’ll do it,” said Savage.

“I’ll do it,” Tilly told her. “Make a space. Arj, we’re going to need the stretcher.”

He was more than happy to leave, practically running for the exit. Tilly squeezed in next to the woman, sliding the cutters into the gap behind her arm.

“You ready?” she asked.

She didn’t wait for a reply, her arm tensing. There was a twang as one section of wire separated, sliding free of her flesh. The woman groaned, close to waking.

“Hurry,” said Savage.

Tilly snipped the second loop, the woman’s body shifting forward as gravity reclaimed her. Kett wrapped his arms around her waist, taking her weight as Tilly cut through the final length of wire on this side. He could feel her rancid breath on his face, her choked groans coming faster now.

Footsteps behind him, although he couldn’t look back.

“Over there,” somebody shouted.

Kett clung tight to the woman as Tilly cut through the wire that held her other arm. She folded onto him, a dead weight, heavier than she had any right to be even with her legs still fixed in place.

“I’ve got her,” said a voice, and Arj was there.

“You sure?” said Kett.

Arj moved in, taking the woman in his arms. Kett had to fall back as more firefighters flooded the space, all calling to each other. Past them, he saw Tilly cut through the wire that held the woman’s legs. She finally came free of her prison, falling into a sea of arms. They lowered her onto a stretcher then hefted it up, two firefighters carrying her across the room. Savage stayed by her side, holding her hand.

“You alright?” Kett called after her.

She didn’t seem to hear him, her eyes locked on the woman. They eased her through the door, the sound of their shouts and the thunder of their footsteps fading.

It would have made more sense to leave her here, he knew, for the paramedics. But the same unspoken thought seemed to have entered all their heads: that the room was poisonous, and they needed to get out of it.

Three firefighters remained, one of them Arj.

“You want us to cut down the others?” he asked.

It was the right thing to do, even though they were dead, but Kett shook his head.

“Leave them for forensics,” he said. “We should clear the room.”

“Not gonna argue with that,” said Arj.

Kett waited for him to pack up his tools before following him to the door. He looked back before he left, not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t want those two dead people to think that they were being left alone.

“I’m sorry,” he called to them, his voice too weak to cross the room.

Then, reeling on the edge of madness, he walked away.

He couldn’t think of a time he’d been happier to be outside. He stumbled from the church, breathing in the smell of summer to clear his sinuses. The breeze had picked up, and it helped to strip away the worst of the nausea. He still had to lean against the wall for a moment, though, his head spinning.

“Take a moment, Robbie,” said a voice.

He turned to see Clare standing a little way off, a couple of constables by his side. The Super looked exactly like Kett felt, his clothes filthy, one side of his shirt untucked, his expression haunted. Past him, in the woods, the firefighters carried the woman back to the clearing where they’d entered. He could hear Savage as she called out orders.

“Take a moment,” Clare said again. “We’ve got her.”

Kett pushed himself off the wall, finding his feet. One of the constables walked past him, heading inside. She looked like a kid about to enter a ghost house.

“Ambulance just pulled up,” said Clare. “Cara’s here as well.”

Kett nodded, running a hand through his hair before remembering what he’d been touching.

“Can you make any sense of this?” said Clare. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

Neither had Kett, not in all the horrors of the last few years, not in all the madness of Hollenbeck. Even Schofield, the Pig Man who’d kidnapped his wife, hadn’t gone this far.

“The dead must not wake,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s written on the wall in there,” he said, waving his hand back towards the church. “Along with a picture of the Grim Reaper. The dead must not wake.”

“What does that mean?” said Clare.

“I have no idea, sir. But somebody’s been stringing people up for a while now, leaving them alive, or keeping them alive.”

“Keeping how?”

“Feeding them, I think,” said Kett, remembering the crust of food around the woman’s mouth. “It’s… it’s unimaginable. The pain, I…”

He couldn’t gather his thoughts. The idea of it, of what those victims had been through, threatened to overwhelm him.

Fortunately, he was distracted by Duke running around the corner of the church. The big PC had to take a second to suck in some air before he spoke.

“You need to see this.”

He really didn’t, but he followed the constable anyway. They hugged the body of the building to avoid the encroaching forest, following the bulk of it right to the back. Porter stood there, beneath the canopy of an enormous oak tree whose branches rested on the slate roof. He looked around when he saw them coming, flinching like he’d expected to be attacked.

“Bloody hell,” he said to Duke. “That’s who you remind me of: John Wayne Gacy. He had a tache just like yours.”

“What?” said Duke, one hand to his face.

“What have you found, Pete?” asked Kett.

“She okay?” said Porter. “The woman?”

“Yeah. What have you found?”

“Two things,” he said. “This is the first. See that?”

Kett stared into the woods, seeing nothing but trees.

“What?”

“That,” said Porter, pointing to his feet.

“I’m too tired for this, Pete,” said Kett, walking over. “What are you⁠—”

He spotted it, a thick, black cable that ran along the forest floor. Kett traced it to the wall of the church, seeing it vanish through a crude hole in the stone.

“That’s the power source,” said Porter. “Homemade. I’ll bet you anything the other end’s spliced into an overhead powerline, maybe the distribution box, if there’s one nearby.”

“Seriously?” said Kett.

“Yeah. Those lights need a lot of juice. The speakers too. You seen the basement yet?”

Kett shook his head.

“Somebody’s been living down there. Got a fridge, a TV, DVD player, everything. This line feeds it all.”

“Shit,” said Kett.

“It’s good,” Porter went on. “You need to know what you’re doing to set something like this up. Any ordinary Joe cutting into a power line is going to end up inside out.”

“You think he’s an electrician?” said Kett.

Porter shrugged.

“Makes sense, sir. Somebody in the trade. We found a whole bunch of wires in the basement, spare cables. Some electric, some not. Can’t see what they’d be used for here, so maybe they’re for his job.”

“Might explain the van, too,” said Kett. “Although I don’t know why he’d need a refrigeration unit.”

It hit him, even as he said it. There was a very good reason.

“The bodies,” he said.

Porter shook his head.

“I don’t think he was taking the bodies in his van,” he said. “That’s the other thing I wanted to show you.”

He set off into the woods, circumnavigating the giant oak. Kett followed, branches cracking beneath his feet like he was treading on a carpet of bones. They’d only walked a dozen yards or so before Porter stopped again.

This time, Kett didn’t need to be told where to look.

Three small, wooden crosses jutted upwards from the ground, each one sitting at the head of a rectangle of unsettled earth.

“Shit,” Kett said again.

“Graves,” said Duke, who had wandered in after them.

“Yeah, Aaron, I got that.”

Kett stared into the woods.

“These the only ones you’ve found?”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “Nothing else nearby, but we’ll need a proper look.”

The low branches of the trees were almost as claustrophobic as the church, the still, breath-hot air making him feel panicky. He set off back the way he’d come, pushing past Duke, not stopping until he’d walked all the way to the front of the building. Clare was still there, as motionless as a gargoyle. Cara Hay, the chief forensic officer, was approaching along the path, followed by a gaggle of white-suited technicians.

“You know where you’re going?” Kett asked her.

“I have been told to follow the smell,” she said in her Trinidadian accent.

“I’ll take you,” he said. “There’s something I need to check.”

It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he ducked through the door and entered the church once again. The lights were on, at least, the bulbs in the corridor much softer than those in the nave. He led the way without saying a word, pressing past the wheeled bookcase and reaching the metal door. He stayed there, because he couldn’t bear to walk back into the kill room.

“Through there, on the right,” he said. “And brace yourself, Cara. It’s a nightmare.”

He watched them go, then doubled back, stopping beside the stairs that led into the basement. There were lights here too, thank God. He carefully made his way down, turning left at the bottom and finding himself in a low corridor. Three metal cabinets lined the wall to the right, one containing the fuse board, the next two full of tools. Coils of electrical cable ran along the top.

Past that was a large room. The ceiling was vaulted, the brick walls bare. Porter was right, somebody had been living here. As well as the fridge and the TV, there was a single cot bed and a chair that looked like it had been rescued from a tip. A rack had been pushed against one wall, made from scaffolding poles. Clothes hung from it, jeans and plaid shirts and a fisherman’s jumper. They seemed utterly alien in this place.

He used a knuckle to pry open the fridge, immediately wishing that he hadn’t. Jars of baby food filled the space, dozens of them.

Kett made his way to the TV. A stack of DVDs sat on top of the player, and when he ran his eyes along the spines he saw that they were all family comedies: Beethoven, Mrs Doubtfire, Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. He couldn’t imagine anybody sitting here laughing, while there was so much suffering right over their head.

There was nothing else here.

Kett stared at the bed, at the chair, at the walls.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The room held its breath.

CHAPTER NINE

There was no sign of Clare when Kett walked out of the church again, just the two constables who guarded the door.

“He’s gone,” said one.

“He said the job could get tossed,” said the other, frowning. “I think he was joking.”

Kett followed the path through the woods, giving way to more constables and technicians as they flowed towards the church. The clearing with the sheds was mobbed, the fire engine and two IRVs taking up most of the space. Half a dozen uniformed officers milled around, not quite sure what to do with themselves.

The Superintendent’s voice rang out from the direction of the road, and Kett found him there. With his awful trousers and his sweat-drenched face, he looked a little like a rotisserie chicken. Porter and Duke leaned against an IRV, as hot and bothered as each other. Savage had gone, presumably with the ambulance.

“And I don’t want it,” Clare yelled at the two men, flapping his arms. “I don’t want any of it, so kindly stick it all back up your tosshole and bugger off!”

“Any of what?” said Kett as he walked up.

He instantly regretted the question when Clare turned to face him, his yellow teeth bared. He’d broken out in some kind of rash, his face swollen, his neck blotchy.

“What do you think?” he spat, gesticulating like a drowning man. “This, Robert. This! I don’t want a church full of dead people. I don’t want shallow graves in the woods. I don’t want another serial killer in my back garden. So take it back!”

“Are you okay, sir?” said Kett. “You look a little… purple.”

The Super was growing purpler still, but he managed to put a lid on it—literally, by planting both hands on top of his head and taking a deep breath.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “There’s nothing more we can do here, not until Cara has finished. You lot need to go home and clean up. Get rid of those ridiculous clothes.”

“We need to be out here, sir,” said Kett. “Whoever did this is close, they only torched the van, what?”

He glanced at his watch.

“Less than two hours ago?”

“They could be anywhere by now,” spat Clare. “They could be out of the county, or the country. On a train, a boat. We messed up. They’re long gone.”

Kett looked over his shoulder, trying to spot the church through the trees. There was no sign of it. From the road, it was completely invisible.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Something tells me this isn’t the kind of person who runs.”

“They’re running,” said Clare. “Their sick operation is busted; we’re all over it. They’re not going to hang around. They’re going to set up someplace else and do exactly the same thing.”

He smeared both hands over his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

“He’s gone,” he said. “And I want you lot gone too. I’m sick of staring at you.”

“Do we have any more information about this place?” said Kett. “Who’s the van registered to?”

“Spalding’s on it,” said Clare. “But she’s hit a dead end. Van’s registered to a business at this address, the meat packing place. But there’s nothing here. Business is a dud, run by a man called Graysen Duffy. Only there is nobody called Graysen Duffy, not in the entire country. No other names to go on, no links.”

“Somebody must own the church,” he said.

“Oh, must they?” said Clare, rubbing his mottled neck. “Because when Alison checked, she found that the original owner of the land died in the seventies, and it’s never been sold. The estate is unclaimed. Was up for auction a few years ago, but nobody wanted it. It’s been derelict ever since. No water, no gas, just stolen electricity and a building the existence of which doesn’t seem to have been recorded anywhere, not in the history books, not in the parish records, not in the planning department. So unless you’ve got anything else to add, toss off!”

He gurned at them all in turn.

“You know, I’ve been looking forward to today for weeks. I had it all planned out, every last detail. This was my big day.”

“Uh,” said Duke. “Technically it was⁠—”

“I didn’t even get to play my flute!” Clare said, storming back up the track. “You ruined it!”

“He does realise he wasn’t the one getting married, doesn’t he?” said Duke when he was out of earshot. He was stroking his moustache like he’d just glued it on.

“Don’t do that, mate,” said Porter, disgusted.

“Do what, sir?”

“Fondle it.”

“No law saying you have to look at me,” said Duke, stroking faster.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” said Porter. “It’s so…”

He was struggling for the word.

“Erotic?” said Duke.

“No!” said the DI, pushing himself away from the car. “Christ no. Disturbing, that’s what I was going to say. It’s not erotic at all.”

“Methinks she doth protest too much,” said Duke, who was stroking so hard he was in danger of giving himself a friction burn.

“Enough,” said Kett. “Clare’s right, we should go home, straighten up, come back at it with a clear head.”

Both men nodded.

“Give me a ride back to my car, will you, Pete?” he said.

Porter nodded, unlocking the Mondeo with his fob. Kett climbed into the insufferable heat, taking one last look back at the woods. No leads, just dead ends.

“Let’s hope Kate is getting on better than we are,” he said.

Savage rode in the back of the ambulance, even though the paramedics had asked her not to. The woman from the church was in a bad state, and fading fast. She’d woken as they were moving her from the fire service’s stretcher onto the gurney, her wasted body surprisingly strong. It had taken four of them to hold her down while she’d been given a shot of midazolam, and even then she’d fought it.

She’d been like an animal, Savage thought, her face warped with panic, her eyes bulging. She’d raked at them with long, claw-like nails, gnashed her broken teeth. There hadn’t been anything human left in there at all. It wasn’t surprising, though, given what had happened to her. It was impossible to know how long she’d been strung up on the wall like that. Days. Weeks.

Months, maybe.

All while those lights burned away her eyes, while the music deafened her.

It was cruelty on a level Savage had never seen before. It would drive anyone insane.

But the woman was still human. Savage sat next to her, never letting go of her hand, squeezing every time they rode over a bump or turned a corner too sharply.

“You’re okay,” she said, over and over again. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She held onto her so tightly that when they arrived at the hospital it was hard for her to loosen her grip, her fingers frozen. She followed the woman as they wheeled her into Accident and Emergency, but here one of the paramedics stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I get it,” she said. “I really do. But you need to give them space. Better for her, yeah?”

The doors closed behind the gurney.

“Better for you, too,” said the paramedic.

After a moment or two, Savage nodded, stepping back.

“Was this really your wedding day?” the woman asked.

“Yeah,” said Savage, although the morning felt like a lifetime ago.

“Well, my big day got cancelled when my father-in-law punched the organist,” she said. “So really, you’re still winning.”

The woman gave her a smile, then walked through the doors.

Savage made her way towards the lobby, spotting a uniformed constable sitting on a chair beside a ward. He sat up when he spotted her.

“Alright, Sarge,” he said. “Sorry about the… you know. Can’t believe he did it.”

“Thanks,” said Savage. She frowned. “Wait, who did what?”

“You know,” the man said, leaning forward. “Dukey. Can’t believe the whole thing got scuppered because of his beard.”

“What?”

“You didn’t ditch him at the altar because of his face?” the constable said, sitting back in confusion.

“No!” said Savage. “Who told you that?”

“Just the word on the street,” he said, shrugging. “Mike told me, and Jay told him. No idea where Jay heard it.”

“I know exactly where he heard it,” said Savage, silently cursing Porter. “You here for the first woman we found? The one who got thrown out of the van at my wedding?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so. Nobody’s really said. Whoever she is, she’s in there.”

He pointed to the door beside him, and Savage nodded her thanks. She opened it as quietly as she could, so as not to wake her. But when she peered into the room, she saw that the woman was conscious. She lay face-down in the bed, her head and chest propped up on a pillow. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, covered with fresh bandages. A nurse in her early fifties stood next to the bed, straightening the thin blanket that covered her legs. She looked up with a decidedly unfriendly expression.

“I’m sorry,” she said, just a whisper. “This room is out of bounds. The officer should have stopped you.”

Savage pulled out her warrant card, which never left her pocket—even on her wedding day, it seemed.

“I’m police,” she said. “DS Kate Savage.”

The nurse frowned at her outfit, at her face, then seemed to soften.

“It was your wedding?” she said. “The one everybody’s talking about?”

“Yeah,” said Savage, closing the door behind her.

She walked to the bed. The young woman was watching her, but her face was slack, devoid of any emotion at all. It looked like she’d been given something seriously strong.

“You mind if I come in for a second?” she said.

“You’re already in,” said the nurse, checking the monitor. “Nothing I can do about it.”

“How is she?”

“You really need me to answer that?” said the nurse, although there was no malice in her tone. Savage was close enough now to read the name on her lanyard: Gillian. “The wounds have been stitched and dressed,” she said, resting her hand on the woman’s back. “There’s damage to the muscle, but the doctors think she’ll heal just fine, in time. Her body, anyway.”

“That’s good,” said Savage, speaking to the injured woman. To the girl, really, because she was barely out of her teens. “That’s great. Can you hear me?”

The answer must have been yes, because she was looking right at her. She blinked, her tongue probing the tattered ruin of her lips.

“She’s sedated?”

“Yes,” said Gillian. “But not by us. We found traces of ketamine and Rohypnol in her blood.”

“What?” said Savage.

“High doses,” the nurse went on, still stroking the girl’s back. “Close to fatal. It’s a miracle she’s doing as well as she is. But then it’s a miracle she survived at all.”

“Has she spoken?” said Savage.

Gillian shook her head.

“You mind if I try to ask her some questions?”

“Go ahead, but she’s still pretty out of it.”

Savage pulled the chair closer to the bed, perching on the edge of it. The girl watched her, her expression as blank as a newborn baby’s. With that much ket and benzo in her system, she was lucky to be alive. Lucky in other ways, too. Both drugs caused amnesia. There was a good chance she wouldn’t remember anything.

Good for her. Bad for them.

“Hey,” she said. “How are you?”

The girl didn’t reply, still running her tongue along her chapped lips. She hadn’t blinked yet, her eyes dry.

“I’m Kate,” she said. “What’s your name?”

Nothing.

“Do you know where you are?”

Nothing.

“She’s calm,” said Gillian. “That’s the main thing. We don’t need her riled up.”

Savage ignored her, leaning closer.

“I need you to think back,” she said. “Do you remember travelling in a van?”

The girl’s forehead crinkled, but only for a second.

“Do you remember a church?” said Savage.

She stared back, wrapped tight in a blanket of narcotics.

“That’s probably enough,” said Gillian. “The drugs will wear off soon enough. You can come back then, okay?”

“Not alone,” said Savage. “You told us that. You said you weren’t alone, because I think you wanted us to help. We found the church in the woods, we found the other woman. I thought you’d want to know that she’s okay. She’s safe.”

Her words were starting to get through, she could see it in the way the girl’s eyes moved from side to side. Her fists clenched, her body writhing beneath the sheet.

“But I need to know about the other person,” she said. “The person who did this to you. Who is he? What does he look like?”

“Hey,” said the nurse. She snapped her fingers at Savage, which only seemed to upset the girl more. “Enough.”

“Anything you can tell me,” she went on. “Anything that can help us find him. Not alone. Who else was there?”

The girl’s chapped lips moved, pressing together. A noise was rising up her throat, almost the growl of a dog. The nurse looked like she was about to speak again, but Savage shut her up with a look.

“Black,” said the woman in the bed, spitting the word out like it was burning her. She was growing more agitated, trying to turn over. The nurse was doing her best to hold her down.

“For crying out loud,” she muttered.

“Black?” said Savage. “His skin? His clothes?”

She groaned, two words almost lost inside the sound.

“Robe. Mister.”

“Robe?” said Savage. “Black robes? That’s what he was wearing?”

The girl met her eyes, her face crumpling like it had been hit by an invisible fist.

“Death,” she said. “Mr Death. Mr Death.”

The words kept coming, over and over, like a pipe had burst.

“Mr Death. Mr Death. Mr Death.”

“Please,” said Gillian. “Enough.”

“Okay,” said Savage, pushing herself out of the chair. “I’m sorry.”

She backed away, and the girl began to calm. She was still speaking, though, whispering those same two words, staring at the wall like she expected somebody to walk through it. The nurse planted both hands on the girl’s shoulders, staring at Savage.

“Keep going,” she said.

Savage opened the door, stepping into the corridor and closing it behind her. The PC who’d been sitting there was gone, but there was another man walking towards her, a tall, lean doctor in green scrubs. His balding crown reflected the ceiling lights.

“Hullo,” he said. He squinted at her through glasses that looked like they’d been cleaned with Vaseline. “Oh, sorry, somebody told me there was a police detective here.”

Savage lifted a hand.

“Guilty as charged,” she said. “It’s been a long day. How can I help?”

“You brought the young woman in earlier,” he said, nodding to the door. “I was one of the doctors who stitched her up. Terrible business.”

Savage nodded, wondering what he was leading to.

“Thing is,” he said, “I recognised her. Couldn’t for the life of me place it when I was in theatre, but I went back and scoured my brain, and it hit me. I’ve met her before. Here, in fact.”

“Seriously?” said Savage.

“Yup,” said the man, beaming. “I know exactly who she is.”

CHAPTER TEN

Kett was stepping out of the shower when he heard his phone ring. He dried his face, wrapping the towel around his waist and walking out of the door, tripping on the fat dog who sat outside his bathroom.

“Bloody hell,” he said, almost losing his towel as he struggled to stay upright. Colin the staffy obviously thought it was a game, running around his feet and making matters infinitely worse. She was snorting like a pig in mud. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

Kett hopped, skipped and jumped into the bedroom, naked by the time he recovered. He slammed the door before the dog could get in, reaching into the pockets of the tuxedo trousers that he’d left on the bed. He’d only just found the phone when it stopped ringing.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered again, seeing Savage’s name on the screen.

He called her back, laying the phone on the bed and putting it on speaker so that he could dry himself. He grabbed some underwear from the drawer, only just getting it on before the door opened. The dog shot through, running at him with such a ferocious look on her face that it was all he could do not to scream. She set about his bare leg with her giant tongue, while Evie watched from the door.

“She wants to lick you!” she yelled, delighted.

“What?” came Savage’s voice from the phone. “Who does? Me?”

“Go!” said Kett, flapping his daughter and the dog from the room and closing the door again. “Kate?”

“I’m not licking you, sir,” said Savage. “You back home?”

“No,” he said, opening the wardrobe and pulling out a suit. “I’m in a madhouse. Your dog is here.”

Savage laughed.

“Oh, right, yeah. I couldn’t leave her at the church. Billie offered.”

“It’s cool,” he said, stepping into his trousers. “Any updates? I’m about to head over to HQ.”

“Don’t,” said Savage. “We got lucky. Doctor at the hospital just told me he recognises the victim from the church. From my church, that is. The woman dumped by the van.”

“Seriously?” said Kett, buttoning his shirt.

“That’s exactly what I said. Her name’s Kathryn Sutton. Kathryn with a k and a y. She’s twenty-five. She was in A&E four years ago, a car accident, bad one. Killed both her parents and her sister.”

“Shit,” said Kett. “He’s sure?”

“About ninety per cent. He’s getting her files now. But I looked online, it’s all there. She was in hospital for weeks. Guy who hit them was drunk, was doing over a tonne on the A47 when he clipped the back of their car. He died too. Kathryn pulled through. Photos look like her, although her hair’s different. I’m pretty certain this is our victim.”

Kett grabbed his wallet and his keys, wincing as he opened the door. To his relief, the landing was deserted.

“You’ve got an address for her?”

He could hear the smile in Savage’s voice.

“Yes sir, I’ve got an address.”

He pulled his Volvo up to the house in Old Catton twenty-five minutes later, bumping two wheels onto the kerb to leave the busy road as clear as possible. Kathryn’s house was a surprisingly stately, three-storey Georgian property that sat right on the narrow pavement, its back to the huge public park. The peach-coloured paint was peeling in several places, the sash windows in poor repair, but the wide front door looked brand new, the pink paint gleaming. An engraved brass plaque had been screwed into the wood just below the matching knocker.

Le Palais Rose.

Kett double-checked Savage’s text, wondering if he’d got the wrong place. But the number was right. This was the young woman’s home.

He got out, cricking his back and ignoring the honk he got from a passing van that had to squeeze past his car. The full strength of the sun seemed to have gathered right here on the street, the back of his head sizzling. The knocker felt loud enough to bring the entire building down, the sound of it echoing off the smaller houses on the other side of the road. He leaned in, listening, and when nobody answered, he tried again.

“Anyone home?” he yelled.

This time, a key turned. The door swung open, revealing a skinny guy in his early twenties, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that was covered in so many glittery kittens and psychedelic unicorns that Kett felt himself on the edge of a seizure.

“Wow,” he said, struggling to take his eyes off it.

“Hi,” said the man, folding his arms over his chest self-consciously. There was nothing friendly or welcoming about his angular face. “Can I help you?”

Kett pulled out his warrant card.

“Robert Kett,” he said. “Norfolk Police. You mind telling me your name?”

“I do,” he said, squinting at Kett’s ID. “Hang on.”

He vanished, returning a few seconds later with a phone in his hand. He held it up, obviously recording.

“Better safe than sorry with the police, am I right?” he said. His nasal voice held a Mancunian accent.

“Fine by me,” said Kett. “I’m looking for Kathryn Sutton. Is she here?”

“No.”

“But she lives here?”

The guy answered, but it was lost behind the jet-like roar of a passing bus. The guy switched his glare to the driver until he was out of sight, then returned it to Kett.

“Say again,” said Kett. “Or better still, let me in.”

“I said yes, she lives here.”

“But she’s not here now?” said Kett, and it was his turn to be drowned out by a second bus.

The kid was obviously as annoyed as he was, because he stood back, still holding his phone up. Kett walked inside, closing the door against the relentless sound of traffic. They were in a spacious reception hall, a sweeping staircase leading up to a galleried landing. The hardwood floors had been sanded, little square paint samples plastered all over the shabby walls.

“Shouldn’t be allowed to bring buses up here,” said the young man. “You can feel the house shaking every time they pass.”

“I’ll have a word,” said Kett.

The man cocked his head, confused.

“You can do that?”

“I can try,” he lied. “People tend to listen to us.”

The man thumbed the screen of his phone, then lowered it.

“Tom,” he said. “I’m Tom.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Kett told him. “You here alone?”

The lad didn’t answer, his face creasing with suspicion again.

“You always this paranoid?” Kett asked. “I’m not here for you, don’t worry.”

“You know how it is,” said Tom. “Every other video on Insta these days is people getting beaten up by the police. First rule, cover your own backside.”

He made a point of looking up, and Kett spotted a security camera on the ceiling, facing the door.

“Right,” said Kett. “Kathryn. She’s not here?”

“No. Why?”

“Have you got a recent picture of her, by any chance?”

“Why?” said Tom.

Kett breathed out a sigh of frustration.

“This will go a lot faster if you do what I ask,” he said. “A photo?”

Tom turned to his phone, unsure. It took him a little while, but eventually he held it up. On the screen was a photo of a young woman, standing right where Kett was now. She was wearing a short, black dress and holding a pink clutch bag. Her hair was tied back and slicked down, her face made up. The crane tattoo sat proudly on her upper arm. She was grinning.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the girl who had been dumped at the wedding.

“Mind if I borrow this for a second?” he said.

“Yeah, I⁠—”

Kett took the man’s phone, sending the photo to himself in a text message.

“Hey, you can’t do that! That’s my⁠—”

“Listen,” said Kett, his voice filling the space effortlessly, cutting off the young man mid-sentence. “Kathryn was thrown out of a van this morning, outside a church twenty miles from here. She was attacked, Tom. Badly. She was drugged, and cut, and…”

He couldn’t bring himself to tell the young man what else had happened to her.

“She’s in hospital. They think she’ll be okay. But it is extremely important that we find out what happened to her. That we find out who did this to her. Are you hearing me?”

He’d rendered the kid speechless. All Tom could do was nod. Kett scrolled through the list of contacts, finding Kathryn’s mobile number. He texted it to himself as well, then handed the phone back.

“You Kathryn’s friend? Boyfriend?”

“Friend,” he spluttered. “Lodger, too. I’ve been here since she moved in.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Uh, like, Thursday,” he said.

“Thursday? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s when I took that photo. She wanted me to, said she felt good about herself. She was going out.”

“Where?”

“A club, I think,” said Tom. “I can’t remember. With friends.”

“Which friends? From work?”

“Kathryn doesn’t work,” he said. “Other than fixing up this place. She does this gym thing, they’re all from there.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Right after I took the photo. Uh, it was… I can’t… Wait.”

He checked his phone.

“6:42,” he said, showing Kett the timestamp. “It’s right there. I took the photo, and she left.”

“She got in a car? She walked? Alone? With friends?”

His eyes grew as wide as those of the kittens on his T-shirt.

“I don’t know, I didn’t look, I… We’ve got a camera on the door as well, you can look. But she usually gets picked up. This girl called Leah drives, because she doesn’t drink.”

“Which club?” said Kett.

The boy shrugged, the kittens on his T-shirt flinching.

“I don’t know. Thursday, probably the Waterfront, or… Oh, no, I remember. It was a Noughties night, at Kabanas. That’s it. I was going to go, but, you know.”

He shrugged again. Kett had no idea what he was supposed to know.

“You didn’t hear from her again?” said Kett. “Calls? Texts? Anything from any of her friends?”

“No.”

“But she hasn’t come home in, what, two nights? You weren’t worried?”

At this, Tom laughed.

“You don’t know Kathryn, do you?” he said. “Wouldn’t be a proper night out if she came home.”

“In what way? Men?”

“Men, women, she doesn’t really have a preference. It’s all about the thrill of it.”

“You’re saying she goes home with people?” said Kett. “People she’s just met.”

“It happens, Granddad,” he said, close to rolling his eyes. “But I don’t want to give the wrong impression. She’s not a…”

He leaned in, cupping his hand to his mouth.

“Slut.”

He backed off again.

“Or anything like that. It’s more about companionship for her. Adventure. If she sees somebody she likes, she’ll hang with them for a bit. That’s the thing with Kathryn, there’s no predicting what she’ll do, because she doesn’t even know, not until it happens. Spends some time with them, then she leaves, and she’ll burn all the bridges on the way out of town.”

“In what way?”

He shrugged the same infuriating shrug.

“She struggles with people. With friends, partners, long-term stuff. I don’t think she thinks she deserves them.”

He stopped talking, his face falling as the conversation caught up with him.

“Wait, somebody attacked her?”

“Yeah,” said Kett.

“But she’s okay?”

She wasn’t okay, Kett knew. She would probably never be okay again. But he nodded.

“Tell me what you mean, Tom, about her being unpredictable.”

The boy walked to the stairs, sitting on them.

“You know about the car crash?” he said.

“Assume I don’t,” said Kett.

“Happened when she was twenty-one. Can you imagine it? Some dickhead hits your car, and you lose your mum and your dad and your sister, just like that.”

“Sister?” said Kett.

“Harriet,” said Tom. “She was a couple of years older. Kathryn told me they fought over who sat where that night, and Harriet won.”

He breathed out a laugh.

“Lost, I guess.”

“Kathryn was hurt?” asked Kett.

“Lost her gall bladder, half her liver, smashed up a bunch of ribs. Couldn’t walk for weeks. She was lucky, though. Car got concertinaed, all except for her little corner. If he’d hit them two feet to the left, she’d be gone as well.”

He wiped his nose, staring into space.

“I knew her before,” he said. “We met at uni, Salford. She’s local, I’m not. Back then, before the accident, she wouldn’t have said boop to a gooseberry. Something like that, though, the accident. I guess it changes your perspective, your priorities, whatever. Once she was back on her feet, she was proper carpe diem. She’s even got it tattooed on her, although she got some scuzzy boyfriend to do it and the i and the e are the wrong way around, and the e looks more like an a. Carpe Daim, like, ‘seize the chocolate.’”

Kett had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but the guy was on a roll.

“She’s a lot more fun now,” he said. “Always up for a laugh, always up for a challenge. She bought this place about a year ago, used the money she got from… Well, you know, there was a lot of it. Inheritance, insurance, all that.”

He shrugged, still staring into the middle distance.

“Miss her sometimes, though,” he said. “The old Kathryn. Sometimes feels like she did die in that crash, and somebody else walked out, you know? I think she feels it too. Feels like she’s not herself.”

“Tom, can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Kathryn? Any boyfriends, girlfriends? Anyone she might have met on a night out?”

He shrugged.

“She never mentioned anyone. You meet some right weirdos in the city sometimes.”

“What about the money?” asked Kett. “She’s wealthy. You think somebody might hurt her to get at it?”

It didn’t fit what they’d found in the church, but it was worth asking anyway.

“We don’t really hang around with those kinds of people,” said Tom. “Nobody we know really gives a shit about money.”

Kett breathed out slowly.

“You guys live here alone?” he asked.

“Mostly. We both have people come to stay.”

“I’ve got to ask you,” said Kett. “Have you got an alibi for the last couple of days?”

“I was waiting for that,” said Tom. He nodded to the cameras again. “I haven’t been out, except for fags. You can check.”

“I will,” he said. “You mind if I have a look around?”

Tom lifted his lanky arms.

“Feel free.”

Kett made his way down the wide hall, walking past a living room that was cluttered with furniture, and a dining room that had been cleared out, presumably to decorate. There was nothing of note in the kitchen, other than some framed photographs on a shelf, more than one showing a young Kathryn with her family.

Tom was right, she didn’t look like the same person back then.

He took out his phone as he made his way back, calling Porter. Tom moved out of his way so that he could climb the stairs, and he’d popped his head through the first two doors before the DI answered.

“You busy?” asked Kett.

“Busy trying not to look at Duke,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Savage found our girl. Kathryn Sutton. She was heading to a club on Thursday night. Kabanas. You know it?”

“I do,” came Duke’s voice. “Porter’s too old for it.”

“I’m not too old for it,” said Porter. “I go partying all the time. I know all the best clubs.”

“Where is it?” said Kett.

“I don’t know,” Porter replied. “Hang on.”

There was a scuffle of noise, then Duke started talking.

“Prince of Wales, sir,” he said. “Used to be the cinema, then something else. Changed hands last year. They do mostly House stuff, some theme nights. It’s pretty grotty, to be honest.”

Kett found Kathryn’s bedroom and walked inside. It was like a bomb had gone off in a fabric shop, the walls draped with pink chiffon, more of it hanging from the ceiling, more still from the frame of the four-poster bed. If somebody lit a match in here, it would go up in seconds.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

“What, sir?” asked Duke.

“Nothing. Just go to Kabanas, check their security footage from Thursday. See if she was there, and find out what happened to her.”

“Yes, sir,” said Duke, hanging up.

Kett surveyed the room. A pink duvet, a pink chair with pink fluffy cushions, a pink bookcase filled to bursting with books and photographs and souvenirs. These were the only things that broke the colour scheme, glimpses of green from fake plants, a gold trophy, a blue teddy bear holding what looked like a teardrop.

And there, on the second shelf from the floor, a flash of black and white.

Ket walked closer, ducking down to try to make sense of what he was seeing, then not quite believing it.

It was a plastic figure in a black robe, a skeletal face peering out from the hood.

In its hand was a scythe, the blade curved over its head like a grey rainbow.

Underneath, on the circular base, somebody had written a message in black pen:

Say hello to Mr Death.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“You do realise that I’m not even that much older than you,” said Porter as Duke drove them down Prince of Wales Road. They were both back in their work clothes, Porter in a black Tom Ford suit, Duke in uniform. His hi-vis jacket was so bright that it was hard to look at him.

Which was a blessing, really.

It was coming up for four, and the pubs were already rammed. Men strutted up the road like cockerels, fluffed up in designer shirts and polos. The women teetered in their high heels, weaving in and out of the families and the shoppers who’d somehow ended up on the wrong side of the city. Shouts and laughter carried in the heat, the carnival winding up the way it always did on a Saturday night. In a few hours it would be carnage down here.

“I know, sir,” said Duke, bringing the IRV to a stop. “Twenty years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

“It’s not twenty years,” said Porter. “It’s, like, ten, and a bit.”

“The bit being another ten,” said the PC, grinning beneath his idiotic moustache. Porter wondered what would happen if he grabbed it and pulled hard.

“The bit being about five,” he said.

Duke got out, and Porter followed. They were at the bottom of the hill, the clubs taking up half the space, the rest of the street dominated by kebab shops and bookies. The only normal thing was the Tesco’s over the road, but even that was being sullied: a woman in a fur coat with a carrier bag on her head throwing up outside the door. Duke put his hand on his radio.

“You want me to⁠—”

“No,” said Porter, impatient. “Come on, this is it.”

The front of Kabanas was a brick façade which didn’t look massive, but the building inside was enormous. It had been a club for as long as he could remember. He’d been here a few times with Allie when they’d first moved to the city, back in the days when they could both dance non-stop until two in the morning, high on alcopops and adrenaline; back in the days before Bobby had been born, when those two in the morning wake-up calls became a lot less fun.

Back before their relationship had started crumbling.

He loved his son more than anything, of course. But he loved Allie too, he loved their life together, their shared history. He loved what they’d once been, and it broke his heart that he’d had to give up so much of that in order to become a father.

“You still trying to do the maths?” asked Duke as they walked to the door.

Porter ignored him, pressing the bell and then hammering a fist on the window. A group of lads was walking past, jeering at them. Two were holding open bottles of beer, and if the day had been cooler and he’d had a little more energy, Porter would have happily thrown them in the back of the IRV. He eyeballed them until they turned away.

“Police,” he yelled, banging on the door. He stared at the camera over his head. “Open up, it’s too bloody hot.”

He stood back when he heard a bolt being drawn. The door opened, revealing a short, athletic guy in a tight-fitting tank top. His black hair was immaculately slicked back, his beard so neat it could have been painted on. There was a gold chain around his neck that looked too nice to be fake, and when he lifted his hand, Porter saw the Rolex.

“Easy, boss,” the guy said. “You’ll take my door off.”

“Move,” said Porter.

He waited for the man to step aside before entering the lobby. It was cooler in here, at least, although not by much. Kabana’s’, complete with two apostrophes, was painted in black over a flimsy front desk, and Porter’s feet stuck to the carpet as he walked. The place looked the same way all clubs did when the music stopped and the lights were off: sad.

“My name’s DI Peter Porter,” he said, showing the man his warrant card. He nodded at Duke. “This is Magnum PI.”

“For real?” said the man.

“Yeah,” said Porter. “Who are you?”

“Raz,” said the guy. Porter waited, tapping his foot. “Çoban,” he finished. He had an accent, probably Turkish.

“I’m going to need to see some security footage,” he said.

Raz gave an apologetic shrug.

“I’m gonna need to see a warrant,” he said, his voice musical.

“You the manager?” said Porter.

“Manager, owner, bit of everything, boss,” he said. “Go get a warrant and you can look at anything you like. Until then…”

He swept his arms to the door, the watch glinting.

“Make sure you put your suncream on,” he said. “It’s hot out there.”

“Look,” said Porter, fighting to control his temper. “This has nothing to do with you, or the club. A woman was kidnapped, assaulted, probably on Thursday night, or Friday morning. The last place she was heading was Kabanas, but we don’t think it happened here. We just need to know where she went when she left.”

The door on the other side of the lobby opened and a man the size of a mountain walked out, so tall he had to duck beneath the lintel. He was dressed in black, his bald head as wrinkled as a bollock. There was a chemical smell coming off him, something deeply unpleasant that instantly filled the lobby. He walked over and folded his arms across his chest, staring at Duke. To his credit, Duke stared right back.

“Can’t help you, boss,” said Raz.

“Sure,” said Porter, looking between the two men.

There wasn’t much he could do about it.

He made his way to the exit, walking into the heat. His head was pounding, probably because he’d forgotten to drink anything all day. He waited for Duke to unlock the car, then he climbed inside, massaging his temples. Duke slid behind the wheel, checking his watch and then breathing out a massive sigh.

“What’s up with you?” said Porter.

“Four o’clock,” said the PC. “Kate and I would be married by now, the party would have been banging. Food would be coming in an hour, speeches, dancing.”

He gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, and despite his stupid face, Porter felt a wash of sympathy for him.

“I know, mate,” he said. “We could be sitting in that boiling marquee right now, watching Jolly Flute Clare fellate his instrument.”

Duke snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

“I actually would have paid to see that,” he said.

“You’re right, though,” said Porter, the heat of the day igniting an anger inside him. “It’s your day, and it’s ruined, because the world is full of dickheads.”

Duke nodded.

“I’m sick of it,” said Porter. “Sick of all the fucking dickheads. Pull around the corner.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it, Duke.”

The PC started the engine, driving to the end of the club. The side road had been pedestrianised here—ever since the building next door had exploded, Porter remembered, during the Ballard case—but Duke bumped onto the pavement, pulling into the shaded footpath.

“What are we—” he started, but Porter was already out of the car.

“Get the hoolie.”

He made his way down the side of the building, the cooler air here doing nothing to calm him down. There was a fire exit ahead, the loop of chain that secured it breaking just about every code in existence. He waited for Duke to trot up, taking the Halligan pry bar from his hand.

“You agree that those men were acting suspiciously?” he said.

“Pretty shady,” said Duke. “Probably hiding something.”

They both glanced at the security camera that had been mounted over the door. Duke pretended to yawn, stretching his arms and using his fingertips to push the camera into the wall.

“Whoops,” he said.

Porter jammed the sharp end of the pry bar into the bracket. The links of the chain were thicker than his thumb, but the door was ancient, and the screws slid right out of the rotting wood. The chain fell to the ground with a clatter, and he rammed the head of the Halligan into the gap between the doors. All it took was one powerful shove, and they splintered open.

“Whoops,” he said.

“Pair of butterfingerers today, aren’t we, sir?” said Duke.

“Butter fingerers?”

Porter led the way into a windowless corridor, fumbling through the dark until he found another door. This one opened into the vast space of the dance hall, a curved stage on one side and a balcony overhead. It was eerily quiet in here, just the thunder of his heart and Duke’s wet breaths.

“What now?” asked the PC.

“Find the security room,” he said. “And preferably something illegal, so we don’t have to explain ourselves.”

He set off across the floor, the pry bar threatening to slip out of his sweaty hand. He could hear somebody whistling as they passed the bar, the clink of bottles being shifted. He made for the stairs instead, taking them two at a time. The space up here was just as big, stretching into another part of the club. He was already turned around, struggling to remember the way back in case they needed to run.

Duke had taken the lead, somehow managing to sound like a herd of elephants even though the floor was carpeted.

“Where are you going?” Porter hissed.

“It’s this way,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been here,” he said, still walking. “Loads of times. Me and Joshy were here last week for a bit of a stag thing.”

“You what?” said Porter, running to catch up with him. “You and bloody Joshy?”

Duke seemed to realise he’d put his giant foot in it. He turned back.

“It wasn’t like a proper do,” he said. “I already had that, with you guys.”

“Duke, you let Clare organise that, and we went to a bloody village hall line dance. It was shit. You’re telling me you and Joshy…” He kept spitting the name out like it was poisonous, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Came here for a proper lad’s night, and you didn’t invite me?”

Somewhere in the building, a door slammed.

“We should probably…” hinted Duke.

“This conversation isn’t finished, Aaron,” said Porter, pushing past him. “Where are we going?”

“Up there on the left,” said Duke. “Black door, hard to spot. Always got a security guard outside of it, and I’ve seen the screens when the staff go in and out.”

Porter spotted it, jogging up and putting his ear to the wood. He couldn’t hear anything, so he glanced back to make sure Duke was ready, then he shunted it open.

Inside was a cramped room, the walls lined with desks and a table taking up the middle of the space. There were three large monitors on the desks, all switched off. There was also a laptop on the table, which was switched on.

The other thing on the table was a silver platter covered with white lines that could only be cocaine. The reason Porter knew it was cocaine was because the bollock-headed goliath they’d met in reception was currently face-down in it, snorting hard.

“That illegal enough for you, sir?” said Duke.

The bald man lifted his head from the plate and saw them. There was more powder on his top lip than there was hair on Duke’s, and his eyes were the size of yams. He stood straight, the veins in his head pulsing, his ham-like hands compressing themselves into fists.

“Well, shit,” said Porter.

The guy grabbed the laptop and hurled it into the wall. Then he picked up the table—the entire table—and with a roar of fury he lobbed it at them.

“Shit!” Porter yelled, falling back as the table hit the door frame.

Bollock head threw himself over the wreckage, exploding from the room like a sweaty demolition ball. He was moving faster than it should have been possible for a man who had to weigh twenty-something stone, wrapping his fat fingers around Porter’s throat and hoisting him off the floor.

Shit! he gargled, the word trapped in his throat.

He lifted the pry bar to fight back, but it slid out of his grip, falling to the ground. He swung like a hanged man, his toes scuffing the carpet, everything going black around the edges.

Then Duke was there, his baton thwacking into the man’s arm.

“Let go of him!” the PC roared. “Now!”

He smacked him again, and again, but bollock head didn’t seem to notice. Duke gave up on the baton, driving his boot into the back of the man’s knee. He began to topple, falling almost in slow motion and pushing Porter down in front of him.

Porter dropped onto his back, bollock head landing square on top. The last of the air in his lungs was punched out, but at least he’d let go of his throat. The man rotated over him, compressing Porter’s torso like a steam roller. Duke was still smacking him with the baton, but it was like hitting a bear with a cheese string.

“Stay down!” the PC was shouting.

The guy pushed himself to his feet, wrapping his mammoth arms around Duke and lifting him off the ground like he was a child. He twisted his hip and sent him flying into the wall hard enough to make the floor tremble.

“Christ,” said Porter, getting to his feet. “Are you insane? We’re police!”

The man’s coked-up brain didn’t care who they were. He lifted a boot over Duke’s head, ready to crush it. Porter charged, rugby tackling his flabby torso and bouncing right off again. The man barely budged, although he had to put his foot down to stop himself falling over.

“What the hell are you?” said Porter.

The guy swung one of his tree-trunk arms and Porter ducked beneath it. While he was down there, he jabbed his fist right into the guy’s crotch.

The man grunted in pain, doubling up. Porter took advantage of the opportunity, bringing his knee up into his groin. He grunted again, his eyes bulging even further. But he still wasn’t giving up, lumbering towards Porter, one hand reaching for his throat again.

Duke made it back to his feet. He collected his baton and whipped it up between the man’s legs. Even past the thunder in his ears, Porter heard the sound of it, like a plank of wood hitting a melon.

The guy folded like a house of cards, landing face first on the carpet, his arse up, his hands clamped over his groin. Porter sucked in air, putting his foot on the man’s hip and shoving him over onto his side. Duke dropped down beside him, snapping cuffs around one wrist. He tried to pull the man’s arm behind his back, but he wasn’t strong enough, so he cuffed his hands in front of him.

“Bloody hell,” he said, as Porter helped him up. “You alright, sir?”

“I’d have been more alright if you’d tasered the prick,” he said.

He glanced to his left, then his right, no idea how they hadn’t alerted everyone in the building.

“You alright with him?” he croaked.

“You’re leaving me?” said Duke, his moustache drooping.

“Give me a second,” he said.

He walked into the security room, heading for the laptop. The man had hurled it with some strength, the screen black, but when Porter lifted it from the ground it whirred back to life. He set it down on one of the desks, seeing the security feed from the cameras right there, and a notification box.

Are you sure you want to delete these files?

“Sneaky bastard,” said Porter.

He clicked no, scanning through the documents that bollock head had been trying to delete. They weren’t from Thursday, they were from that morning, captured by the camera over the front door.

“You got anything, sir?” said Duke, hovering in the doorway.

“Just keep an eye on that twat,” said Porter, rubbing his aching throat. “If he gets up, whack him in the cock again.”

“Pretty sure we’re not allowed to do that,” he grumbled.

“Trust me, between the steroids and the cocaine it’s a wonder he’s got anything left down there.”

Somewhere close by, another door slammed. Porter turned back to the footage, seeing Raz opening up the club and letting in three men. None of them looked like the sort of person you’d want to meet down a dark alleyway. They stopped and chatted, but even when Porter turned the volume all the way up, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Either the camera didn’t have a mic, or the laptop’s speakers had broken.

There was no mistaking what they were doing, though. One of the men handed a satchel to Raz, and he pulled out a small baggie from inside, examining it in the light. He nodded to somebody out of shot, and the four of them walked on.

Porter navigated back to Thursday’s footage, staying on the same camera. The punters started arriving at around seven, a trickle at first and then a long line of them. He pulled out his phone, finding the photograph of Kathryn Sutton that Kett had sent and laying it on the table. The quality of the footage wasn’t great, especially with the lights low. Any of the women in short, black dresses, and that was most of them, could have been her.

“Better hurry, sir,” said Duke. “Baron Harkonnen is recovering.”

“What?”

He upped the playback speed, a river of people flowing past, all anonymous until, finally, he saw her.

“Shit.”

He rewound, played the footage forward. It was definitely Kathryn, he could see the bird tattoo on her arm. She stood in the line with four other women, all of them laughing. One of the staff was handing out glowstick necklaces, and they all got one. They paid their entry fee and walked off.

“Stay on the floor, mate,” said Duke, his baton still in his hand. “I swear to God.”

Porter flicked through the cameras, trying to keep tabs on the young women. It wasn’t hard. They spent most of the night on the dance floor, with the occasional trip to the bar and the toilets. With the video fast-forwarding, they got drunk in seconds. At one point, Kathryn started kissing a man, and Porter jabbed the button to slow it down.

It was a tall guy, black, with cream or white trousers and a loose white shirt. Porter used his phone to take a photo of them.

“Sir?” said Duke, panicking at the door.

“What?”

“He’s just lying there staring at me,” he said.

“He’s probably wondering what you’ve got on your face,” said Porter. “Just keep him there.”

He fast-forwarded, seeing Kathryn and the other man part ways. She danced some more, rushing to the toilet at one point with her hand over her mouth, like she was going to be sick. If she had been, it hadn’t slowed her down. More drinking, more dancing, until at some point she pulled out her phone, staring at the screen. Porter slowed the footage down and watched her answer it. She pushed her other hand to her ear against the volume of the music. Then she walked out of sight.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

He cycled through the cameras until he found her, heading for the back of the club. She was still talking to somebody, but he couldn’t make out her expression. She vanished, and when he found her again, she was leaning on a wall near the toilets, still talking. He watched her for a few seconds before the footage froze, the wheel of death spinning.

Porter hammered the trackpad with his finger, trying to make it work again. But the system seemed like it had crashed. He refreshed the link, only to find that the video had disappeared completely.

“What the hell?” he said.

He tried a different camera, the footage refusing to load.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Duke walked into the room, still clutching his baton. He leaned over Porter as he clicked on another camera. There was no footage on this one at all.

“Where’s it gone?” said Porter.

“Somebody’s deleting it remotely,” said Duke. “From another place.”

“I know what bloody remotely means, Aaron. How do we stop it?”

“We can’t,” said Duke. “Not if they’re logged in.”

Porter swore, clicking through all of the cameras in the hope of seeing Kathryn again. He got lucky, finding the fire door camera they’d entered through. It was Friday morning now, nearly one. From here, Porter could see the street, a couple of giant Biffa bins poking out of the alleyway behind the club.

Kathryn was standing right next to them. She wasn’t on her phone any more.

Porter took a photo.

“What’s she doing?” asked Duke.

The answer came a few seconds later, a glow of lights from further down the street as a vehicle pulled up. The angle of the camera meant that he couldn’t see it, just the glare from its headlights. He took a photo anyway, watching as Kathryn set off towards it.

“She’s meeting somebody,” said Duke. “Getting a lift, maybe. Taxi?”

Somebody else appeared in the footage, a hulking shape that peeled its way from the alley right behind Kathryn. He was wearing black, a hood pulled over his head. Even though Porter was watching a grainy video on a tiny screen, he still felt a ripple of electric fear pass through him, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

“Who the hell is that?” he said.

The figure set off, following Kathryn towards the car. The man turned back as he went, scouring the road, revealing a face smeared with shadow. Porter paused the feed and took a photo.

“Zoom in,” said Duke.

“I’m trying,” he said, smudging his fingers over the greasy trackpad.

The wheel of death appeared, spinning frantically.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled.

The footage vanished.

“Fuck!” said Porter, refreshing the page. There was nothing left on the feed, just an empty timeline. “It’s gone.”

“You got a picture, didn’t you?” said Duke.

Porter pulled it up on his phone. It was a terrible shot of a terrible image, the man’s face a buttery mass beneath his hood.

“Big guy,” said Duke. “Is he bald?”

Porter used his thumbs to zoom in. It was hard to be sure, because of the hood, but there didn’t seem to be any hair there.

“Big guy, bald head,” he said. “Prone to violence.”

Duke ran to the door, stopping right outside. The expression on his face when he looked back in told Porter everything he needed to know.

“Aaron, if you tell me that arsehole has run off, I’m going to make you eat this laptop,” he said.

Duke swallowed.

“He’s run off, sir.”

“Shit!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Black robe.

Mr Death.

Kathryn Sutton’s words had been circling Savage’s head like vultures ever since she’d spoken to the young woman in the hospital, and even more urgently after what Kett had found inside her bedroom: a figure of the Reaper, a scythe over his head, that same name written on the base.

It made sense for somebody who’d escaped tragedy to keep a reminder of their survival, a trophy of some kind.

A memento mori.

But the Grim Reaper wasn’t the only thing that dressed in black robes, and this wasn’t the first time Savage had seen the skull-faced image of death today.

She upped her speed, driving the Audi northeast towards the sea. A voice fizzed out of the speakers, broken by static but still recognisable: Stephanie Melanie Cafferty, the Lincolnshire sergeant who’d visited them earlier in the year to help with the Saint Killer case. She’d left them in disgrace, after trying to steal a piece of evidence for her personal collection, but her knowledge of serial killers had proved invaluable.

Then, and now.

“Feels a bit obvious, Kate,” said Cafferty. “A killer dressed as Death. Little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Savage laughed quietly, spraying the windscreen cleaner to clear away the coating of dirt. The recent harvests had kicked up a volcanic amount of dust and debris.

“But it’s not exactly unique,” Cafferty went on. “Plenty of killers have considered themselves an embodiment of death, even if they haven’t descended into full-blown, hooded cloak, scythe wielding madness. Fish comes to mind. He was one of the worst, thought he was an angel of death commanded by God to sacrifice children. Kallinger too, he claimed to be a demonic instrument of death.”

“Yeah,” said Savage. “Herbert Mullin thought he was a divine figure as well, right?”

“Right,” said Cafferty. “And you’ve got people like Shipman. Doctor Death. He basically filled the role when he thought death wasn’t stepping up to the plate. But I think he thought of himself more as a God than a Reaper.”

“Maybe our guy’s trapped in the same delusion,” said Savage. “But you should have seen his set-up, Steph, his murder room. It was a literal nightmare. He…”

She hesitated, because for a second it didn’t feel real.

“He stitches their skin to a wooden frame. Wire, threaded through metal eyelets. It’s a crucifix, really, but a Y rather than a T. Legs together, arms out.”

Cafferty didn’t reply, other than a heavy breath down the line.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Savage went on, gripping the wheel to fend off a wave of vertigo. “He’s got these lights rigged in the ceiling, halogens, maybe fifty of them. They’re spotlights, all aimed right at his victims. Blindingly bright. And there’s music, only it’s too loud to listen to, it’s just noise. A wall of heavy metal from concert speakers. My ears are still ringing. I can’t even imagine it, what they must have endured in there. Why do that? Why go to all that trouble to rig up a room?”

“My guess is that it’s a kind of…” said Cafferty, and her voice disappeared completely.

“Say that again,” said Savage. “I’m losing you.”

“A torture,” she said, fizzing back. “Like Guantanamo. Stress positions, loud noises. Maybe it’s a form of punishment. Maybe he’s angry with them.”

“Then why not just kill them?” Savage asked. “He’s keeping them alive there, until they lose their minds.”

“Erasing them,” said Cafferty. “Like a… like a blank cassette or something?”

Savage spotted the turn, hitting the brakes a little too late and almost missing it. The Audi rattled as she accelerated up the narrow lane. A familiar round tower appeared over the hedge.

“Maybe,” she said. “Listen, I’d better go, but I’ve emailed you everything we’ve got so far, if you’re happy to take a look?”

“Always happy,” said Cafferty. “Just don’t tell anyone you sent it to me, I wouldn’t want you to get the boot too.”

Savage spotted an IRV ahead, parked next to the gate that led to the church. She pulled up behind it, turning the engine off.

“You doing okay, Steph?” she asked as the car clicked and cooled. “I feel really bad about what happened.”

“Don’t,” said the ex-sergeant. “None of this is on you. We’ve all got our compulsions. We’ve all got our demons. I’m good. Writing a book.”

“Cosy romance?” said Savage with a smile. Cafferty’s laugh made the speakers vibrate.

“Something like that,” she said. “Be careful, Kate. I don’t know who this guy is, but he is not messing around. If he thinks he’s Death, then he won’t hesitate to kill you, or anyone else on the team. Watch your back.”

“I will,” she said. “Thanks, Steph.”

She ended the call and clambered out of the car, squeezing past the IRV to get to the gate. She was relieved there was still a police presence here, although she couldn’t see anyone on the track. Even when she’d passed the bloodstains from where Kathryn had been lying, and turned the corner into the car park, the place seemed deserted.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing off the wall. “Where is everyone?”

No answer from the church, or the drooping marquee. Two dozen rooks watched her from the field, unnaturally quiet, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Savage hesitated, scuffing gravel with the toe of her shoe. Then she pulled out her phone, calling Duke. When he answered, he sounded out of breath.

“You alright, Kate?”

“Yeah, you?”

“No,” said Duke. “But I will be, when we catch him.”

“Catch who?”

“The suspect,” said Porter, his voice faint. “The one your husband let walk away.”

“I didn’t let him walk away,” said Duke. “He ran away. From both of us.”

“You think it’s our guy?” asked Savage, a glimmer of relief threatening to break through the panic. “Who is it?”

“Security guard at Kabanas,” said Duke. “He followed Kathryn out of the club yesterday morning, dressed in black.”

“He’s a prick,” added Porter. “Completely decked your husband.”

“No he didn’t,” said Duke.

“Yes he did.”

“Can you do me a favour?” asked Savage, before their squabble could escalate. “Find out where the police at St Mary’s have gone, I can’t see anyone.”

“St Mary’s?” said Duke. “What are you doing there? Is it back on?”

“The wedding?” she said, scanning the church. “No, Aaron, of course not. I’d have probably let you know if it was back on. It’s just…”

It hit her like a punch to the gut: the door of the church was open a crack. Had it been like that when she’d arrived? She could have sworn it had been closed.

“Just do it for me, please?”

“Hang on,” he said.

He must have passed the phone to Porter, because the DI’s voice was much sharper.

“You back at the church?”

“Yeah, sir,” she said. “Something was nagging me. We’ve got a killer who’s obviously religious. He was keeping Kathryn and his other victims in a church in the woods, he mounts them on a kind of crucifix.”

“Right,” said Porter. “Not sure I’d call him religious. More… insane. But what are you thinking?”

“We still don’t know why he dropped Kathryn here, at another church,” she said. “Maybe it’s because it’s hallowed ground, or whatever, but what if it wasn’t the place he was interested in. What if it was the person.”

“You’ve lost me,” said Porter.

“The priest,” said Savage. “Father Lewis. I saw him earlier, round the back of the church. He was staring at the gravestones. He said something to me, I kind of forgot about it with everything else that happened. He said something like your sins catch up to you.”

“Hang on, what?” said Porter. “And you’re only mentioning this now?”

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t even think, because… well, we’ve known Paul for years. He used to be the priest over in Hemsby, before he moved parishes. After my time, but Mum used to go to his sermons sometimes. Gran, too, after Granddad died.”

“How well do you know him, Kate?”

“Well enough,” she said. “At least, I thought so. But Kathryn mentioned black robes, right? Mr Death. What if she wasn’t talking about the Reaper, what if she was talking about a priest?”

“Just wait there,” said Porter. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

There was a scuffle as he handed the phone back, Duke still sounding out of breath.

“No response,” he said. “Control are trying to raise them. Should be two constables on site, everyone else left for the woods.”

“I’ll try to find them,” she said.

“Don’t,” spat Duke. “Just wait, wait for me, I’ll come out.”

“Not before you find this bloody bollock-headed dickface you won’t,” said Porter.

“It’s Kate,” said Duke, and he was still arguing with the DI when Savage hung up.

She set off towards that open door. Was there somebody in there? A deeper silhouette against the shadows, watching her approach. She slowed, the church a dozen yards away. It sat perfectly still, feeling like a predator, like one of those angler fish doing its best to lure her in.

She patted her pockets, looking for her baton, remembering she was still wearing her tracksuit.

“Come on, Kate,” she told herself. “It’s your church.”

But it didn’t feel like hers any more. It didn’t feel like the safe, quiet space that she and Duke had visited four times in the run-up to today, with its little pews and its stained glass and the lucky wooden statue of St Christopher by the door that had been worn smooth by the touch of a thousand hands.

She took another step, then stopped again, because she thought she’d heard something from the direction of the field. She cocked her head, trying to pick it up over the whistle of the breeze and the warbling croaks from the rooks.

A shout: too quiet for her to understand what it was saying, but close enough that she heard the anger there.

She set off along the face of the church, heading for the field. The flaps of the marquee clapped in the wind as she ran, a round of applause that almost drowned out another shout. She was so busy looking into the trees on the far side of the field that she didn’t see the yellow jacket in the grass until she’d almost stepped on it.

“Shit,” she said, picking it up.

It was a constable’s coat, the fluorescent material blindingly bright.

She dropped it and started moving again. She called Duke as she went, and he answered straightaway.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“I’m fine, Aaron,” she told him, “but I’ve found a jacket, one of the PCs must have dropped it. I…”

More shouts, definitely coming from the woods.

“Something’s going on, get some backup out here.”

He answered her, but she slipped the phone into her pocket, the call still active. She found the trail they’d used earlier, to evacuate the church, and followed the shouts into the merciful shade of the trees. They were louder now, and she could tell by the tone of the voices that they were coming from police.

“Stop that!” somebody yelled. “Enough!”

She ran for another fifteen seconds before she spotted movement to her right, a flash of yellow in the foliage. She left the track, the dense bushes swallowing her up then spitting her out on the other side. The canopies were thick here, and they blotted out so much of the summer sun that it took her a moment to understand what she was looking at.

Two PCs stood at the base of an enormous sycamore tree, only one of them wearing a yellow jacket. They were both shouting up at the branches overhead, which spread outwards like the open hand of a giant.

Standing on one of them, just out of reach from the ground and clinging on for dear life, was Father Paul Lewis, the man who was supposed to have married her to Duke that afternoon.

“Get down!” shouted the PC with the jacket. His face was so drenched in sweat that he looked like he’d been dunked in a bucket of grease. “This is the last time we’re going to ask.”

“Down!” echoed the woman who stood with him. She had her hand on her holstered baton, although Savage didn’t know how it would help her.

“No!” shouted the priest. “I won’t! Leave me alone!”

He let go of the diagonal branch to wave his hand through the air, and almost slipped.

“Father Lewis?” said Savage, walking closer. Her voice made the male PC jump so hard he almost lost his coat too. “What on Earth is going on?”

“God, Sarge, you scared the life out of me,” said the constable, one hand to his chest. “Where did you come from?”

“What’s he doing?” asked Savage, watching the priest wrap his arms around the branch again. She spoke louder: “Father, what are you doing?”

“I won’t come down,” he shouted back, resting his cheek on the branch. His cheeks were flushed, but Savage wasn’t sure if it was because of his emotional state, or if he’d been drinking. “I don’t deserve to. I don’t deserve it.”

“He’s been like that for the last twenty minutes,” said the woman, her hand still on her baton. “Won’t tell us why.”

“Gonna hurt himself if he carries on, though,” said the guy.

“I want to be hurt,” said Lewis, striking himself in the chest. “I deserve to be hurt. For my sins.”

“What sins, Father?” said Savage, taking a few steps closer but stopping well out of the drop zone in case he happened to fall. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman,” he said, his eyes boiling in their sockets.

“Wait, what woman?” asked Savage. “The injured one? The one who was dropped here this morning? Kathryn?”

The priest nodded, his face scraping the rough bark.

“What do you know about her?” said Savage. “Don’t tell me… don’t tell me you did that to her.”

“Of course I did,” he said, thumping his fist into his chest again. “I did it to her. I killed her.”

She remembered the phone, pulling it out.

“You still there, Aaron?”

“I am,” said Porter. “He’s radioing for backup. What’s going on? I can hear yelling.”

“I’m not sure, sir,” said Savage. “But we’re going to need some help here.”

“It won’t be long, they’re coming up from the second church. You got something?”

She held the phone out so that he’d be able to hear.

“What do you mean, you killed her?” she said. “What are you telling me, Father?”

“This happened because of me, Kate,” he said, his face crumpling. “I brought this upon her, I brought this upon the church. I did this to myself.”

“Did you hurt her?” Savage pressed.

The man scrubbed his face on his shoulder, staring at her for a while before finding his answer.

“I told you,” he said. “I told you this morning. You can’t outrun them forever.”

“Your sins?” she asked, and he nodded again.

“I tried to escape them, when I moved here. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t escape me.”

“Look, Father, why don’t you come down?” she said.

“I won’t come down,” he told her, and the way he slurred the words finally answered the question of whether he’d been drinking. “I won’t. I’m going to jump, I’m going to offer my life as penance for my infidelity.”

“Infidelity?” she said. “Uh, religious, or marital? Because I didn’t think you were married, Paul.”

“I’m not,” he said. “She is.”

“Kathryn?”

“No, Susan!”

“Who’s Susan?” said Savage. “Are you telling me you’re having an affair?”

“I must pay for my sins!” he roared, swaying. “I don’t deserve my faith, I don’t deserve to live.”

“So you didn’t hurt Kathryn Sutton?”

“I knew that if I carried on seeing Susan, something bad would happen,” said the man. “God told me to stop, he told me if I couldn’t control myself, somebody would pay the price. And I didn’t stop, Kate.”

He broke into an ugly sob.

“That girl paid the price, she was hurt for my sins. Why else was she left here, for me to see?”

“Right,” said Savage, lifting the phone again. “Sir, you there?”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “Is it him?”

“False alarm,” she said. “Not a serial killer, just a randy priest.”

“Remember, you must die!” wailed Father Lewis. “I must die!”

“Paul, you’re about ten feet up,” Savage told him. “The worst you’ll do is sprain an ankle. Get down, and let’s sober you up.”

She spoke into the phone again.

“It’s not the priest,” she said. “But I’ll bring him in anyway, just in case I’m missing something. That’s if he ever comes back to Earth.”

“Roger that,” said Porter. “You good to head to HQ? Clare has summoned us.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” said Savage, heaving a breath. She looked at the sad, red-faced man in the tree, who wailed from his branch like a miserable chimpanzee. “Honestly, sir, I never want to see this place again.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was nearly five by the time Kett walked into HQ. By some miracle, the air conditioning was working, the bullpen about ten degrees cooler than the day outside, and cold enough that he slipped his jacket on as he made his way to his desk.

There was nobody else here, so he headed for the Incident Room. It was so quiet in the corridor leading up to it that he thought it might have been abandoned too, but when he peeked around the door he saw the entire Extreme Crime Task Force inside. Everybody had their mouth full, Savage and Duke’s half-eaten wedding cake sitting on the table. Even though it had been partially demolished, it was still a thing of beauty, all three tiers of it. There were even two little figures on the top, one in a grey suit with a black pixie cut, one in full police uniform.

Superintendent Clare looked up from his plate, spraying a handful of unintelligible words along with a hail of crumbs. It was an immense relief to see that he’d peeled off his figure-hugging wedding trousers and changed into his usual shapeless brown suit.

“Sorry, sir?” said Kett.

“He’s saying help yourself,” said Savage. She sat next to Duke, nibbling on a slice without much enthusiasm. She’d changed out of her tracksuit into her work clothes, her face free of mascara. She grumbled the next words so quietly that Kett almost didn’t catch them. “Because he certainly did.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let it go to waste,” said Clare, wiping his mouth. “It’s passable. Not as good as mine, obviously.”

“It’s so much better than yours,” said Porter.

Smelling the cake made Kett realise how hungry he was, and he cut himself a wedge, putting it in a napkin. He studied the evidence wall while he ate. It was already thick with photographs and documents. The picture of Kathryn he’d got from Tom took pride of place, her huge smile and flushed cheeks a stark contrast to the image that was pinned next to it. It was the second woman they’d found in the church in the woods, half-starved. She lay on a stretcher here, but the look in her eyes made it clear she was still trapped inside that room, stitched to the wall.

He couldn’t bear to look at it.

“How’re you guys doing?” he asked Savage as he walked to an empty desk.

She opened her mouth to answer, but Clare cut her off.

“She’s fine, Robert,” he said. “I, on the other hand, am not. Do you want to tell them, Pete, or shall I?”

Porter squirmed in his seat.

“I’m not even sure where to start with this one,” Clare went on, walking to the front of the Incident Room. He took a mouthful of cake, chewing his way through the next sentence. “Let’s begin with the phone call we received, shall we? A 999 call from the manager of Kabanas night club. He claimed that two ‘rogue police twats,’ his words not mine, although I fully agree with him, one looking like Rab C Nesbitt, one resembling a muscle-bound seventies porn star.”

“I’m the porn star, obviously,” muttered Porter, scratching at his patchy beard.

“Broke into his building, assaulted a member of staff with a weapon, illegally accessed their CCTV system, and left a big pile of cocaine on the floor of their security room.”

“Come on!” said Duke, gesticulating in protest. “That cocaine was already there.”

“I’ve already explained,” said Porter, blushing furiously. “We spoke with this guy in the lobby, and he gave us reason to believe he might have been complicit in the attack on Kathryn Sutton. For all we knew, he could have had somebody in there. Life and limb, sir.”

He said it without much conviction, and Clare spluttered out a laugh.

“Luckily for you, you were right,” he said.

“Hang on, what?” said Kett, his cake halfway to his mouth. “You found something?”

Clare tapped his finger on another photograph, leaving a smear of icing. The image was so blurry that Kett couldn’t make it out.

“A suspect,” he said.

“What?”

“His name’s Artem Melnyk,” said Clare. “Originally from Ukraine, came here in 2017. He’s been employed at the club for a year or so, working security, all cash in hand. Owner, a man called Raz Çoban, claims he doesn’t really know him, he just employed him because he’s big and scary.”

“Understatement of the century,” said Porter. “Guy’s like ten foot tall. Beat up Duke like he was a little girl.”

Duke gave Porter a look, and Porter studied his fingernails.

“We’re trying to get some background on him, but it’s proving difficult,” Clare went on. “Tell us what you found in the club.”

“That image was caught on the CCTV at just before one on Friday morning,” said Porter. “That’s the back of the club, a fire exit on St Faith’s Lane. We found footage of Kathryn inside the club, with her friends. She gets a call about ten minutes before this, heads out the back way, seems to be waiting for somebody. Car pulls up, although we can’t see it, we don’t know if it’s a car or a van. But it’s something. She walks towards it.”

“You’ve got the video?” said Kett.

“No, sir,” said Porter. “I’ll come back to that. This guy, in the photo, walks out right behind her. He was in the alley. Black jumper, hood up. He follows her down the street. This is the best shot we could get of him.”

“That’s the man in the club?” said Kett, trying to make out a single distinguishing feature in the blur of his face.

“It could be,” said Porter.

“Pretty close,” added Duke. “He was massive. Basically made Porter cry.”

“He did not,” growled Porter.

“It was hard to tell, to be fair,” Duke went on, “because he was sitting on you.”

“What happens next?” said Kett.

“We don’t know,” said Porter, shooting daggers at the PC. “Somebody was deleting the video files as we were watching them.”

“What?” said Kett. “Why did you let them do that?”

“They weren’t with us, sir,” said Duke. “They were doing it remotely.”

“Oh, right.”

“Artem was erasing them when we found him in the club,” said Porter. “We managed to stop him, grabbed the laptop, but I figure the manager guy, Raz, he realised we were in the building, and he finished the job.”

“Denies it completely,” said Clare. “But we’ve brought him in for questioning.”

“What does Artem say?” said Kett. “You brought him in too, right?”

Porter studied his nails again. Duke leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“We had him,” said the PC. “He was down and out, cuffed.”

“And?” said Kett.

“Well, we took our eyes off him for a second,” Duke went on.

“He took his eyes off him,” muttered Porter.

“And he kind of… legged it,” Duke finished.

“With cuffs on?”

Both men nodded.

“Well he can’t be that hard to find, surely,” said Kett. “Massive Ukrainian bloke with no hair and a set of cuffs. You’ve got units out?”

“No,” said Clare, stuffing more cake into his gob. “Why would I have done that?”

Kett shook his head, confused.

“Of course I have, you knob,” the Super went on. “Nobody’s seen him. He’s not at his address.”

“Artem’s a good fit,” said Porter. “The fact he followed Kathryn out of the club. He had access to her. He’s aggressive.”

“But there’s no proof,” said Clare. “We don’t even know this photo is him.”

“You could probably scrape some of his DNA off Porter,” said Duke, smirking. “You know, from where he was sitting on him.”

“Who made the call to Kathryn, in the club?” said Kett.

“Spalding’s accessing her records,” said Clare. “We didn’t find her phone at the crime scene. What we did find were three more bodies.”

“In the shallow graves?” said Kett.

Clare nodded.

“Two men, one woman. All buried this year, according to Franklin. Judging by the wounds on their arms and legs, they probably suffered the same Godawful fate as the victims we found: a slow crucifixion, then death from dehydration or starvation.”

Kett put the rest of his cake on the table. He didn’t have the appetite for it any more.

“Kate’s good news is that it wasn’t the priest,” Clare went on.

“The priest?” said Kett. “Your priest?”

Savage nodded.

“Plenty of secrets,” she said. “But I don’t think they involve murder.”

“What have you been doing, anyway, Robert?” Clare said, spraying more cake. “Tossing yourself in a corner somewhere?”

“Uh, no,” said Kett. “I went to Kathryn’s house. Lodger confirms she went out to Kabanas, he didn’t hear from her again after she left home on Thursday evening. I spoke to her friends as well. She went out with four girls that she knows from physio. They all went into the club with her, but they all left without her.”

“Some friends,” said Savage.

“They didn’t know where she’d gone. Said she vanished sometime after midnight. Nobody remembers her getting a call. They all claimed it’s not unusual for her to disappear on a night out, and the lodger corroborates it. She’ll often go off with somebody, men and women, spend the night somewhere. Two nights. Three.”

“So nobody checked on her?” said Savage.

Kett shook his head.

“Have we got anything else?” he asked.

Clare nodded, although he didn’t look like he wanted to carry on. It soon became clear why.

“Franklin has examined the two bodies we found hanging in the church,” he said. “They’re both men.”

This came as a surprise.

“The body on the left is so decomposed that she’s having trouble ascertaining an age, but dental records indicate he’s somewhere in his fifties. He’s got several tattoos that might help us identify him.”

He hesitated for a moment more.

“Franklin thinks he died of dehydration. It would have taken three days, maybe a little longer. He’s been hanging there for approximately three months since he died.”

“Christ,” said Kett.

“The other guy’s much younger, in his twenties. He’s… fresher, too. Franklin estimates that he died six to eight weeks ago. Different cause of death. He was given water, but no food. He starved.”

“Why do that?” said Savage, folding and unfolding her napkin. “Why kidnap somebody and mutilate them like that, keep them prisoner, just to let them die?”

“That’s the question we’d all like an answer to,” snapped Clare. “So feel free to answer it.”

He didn’t give her the chance, pointing to the photograph of the second woman they’d found, the one who’d still been alive.

“Jane Doe,” he said. “Approximately thirty years old. Severely malnourished and dehydrated. Her injuries indicate she’s been hanging there for approximately four weeks.”

“Christ,” said Kett. “How is she still alive?”

“He must have been feeding her, giving her something to drink,” said Savage.

“That’s something, at least,” said Porter.

“Unless he was doing it to prolong her misery,” she said. “To extend her suffering.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the DI, his face falling.

“Whatever he’s been doing, it’s the bare minimum of what she needs,” said Clare. “Franklin says the gunk on her face was baby food. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. She’s not capable of speech. We’re not even sure if she’s still aware of who she is. That is almost certainly to do with the fact that we found the same drugs in her system that we did in Kathryn’s.”

“Benzos and ketamine?” said Savage.

Clare nodded.

“A lot of it. It would have done a good job of keeping her calm. She might not even have known what was happening to her.”

She knew, thought Kett.

“I’ve got everyone cross-checking with missing person reports. The good news is she’s got a tattoo as well, entwined snakes in the figure of an eight. There’s a scar on her head as well, a big one, probably from some kind of surgery. She shouldn’t be too hard to find. The church in the woods is a dead end, so is the van. Hay is still there, but she hasn’t found much in the way of DNA or prints. In short, we’ve got nothing.”

“Weird collection of victims,” said Kett. “Four men, three women, different ages. What’s the connection?”

Nobody answered. After a few seconds of silence, Clare drummed a fist on the desk.

“It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been this angry,” he said. “This guy has been operating under the radar for months. Kidnapping people, killing them. We didn’t know a thing about it until he shoved it in our faces. How?”

“Maybe he was targeting homeless people?” said Porter. “The ones nobody would notice.”

“But he’s not,” said Kett. “Kathryn’s young, she’s surrounded by friends, people who will miss her, eventually.”

“Which is risky,” said Savage. “Taking her feels opportunistic. If that’s our suspect.” She nodded to the photo of the man in black. “Then he follows her out of a busy club, and attacks her in the middle of the night when she’s alone.”

“Except she’s not alone,” said Porter. “There was a car waiting for her.”

“So maybe the killer’s in the car,” she said. “Or they’re working together, or that guy just happened to be leaving at the same time and has nothing to do with this.”

She pushed her hands to her face, groaning.

“Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night, with the… the wedding and everything.”

There was a moment of silence, everyone grieving for the lost day.

“Did Hay find anything else in the church?” said Kett.

Clare shook his head.

“Somebody’s definitely been living there. No plumbing facilities, but he’s been using the woods as a toilet. Bottled water to drink. My mate Steve checked the wiring. He confirmed it’s a professional job. He doesn’t know many people who could link up to the mains like that, not without killing themselves.”

“That’s something,” said Kett. “We know he’s probably trained, in the trade.”

“Which is about as useless as a toss full of socks,” said Clare.

“A toss full of socks?” Kett said.

“You know how many electricians there are working in the country right now, according to the ONS?”

“Four?” said Duke, his face serious.

Clare glared at him.

“A quarter of a million,” he said. “There are four hundred electrical businesses in Norfolk alone. It would take weeks to look through them all. And he might not even be an electrician.”

“What else do we have to go on?” said Kett.

“Death,” said Savage.

“Yes, Kate,” said Clare, positively gnashing. “We are aware that people have died.”

“No, Death,” she said. “Capital D. The image on the wall in the murder room. The Grim Reaper, looking down on his victims.”

“The dead must not wake,” said Kett.

“Yeah,” said Savage. “And Kathryn said it, when I saw her in the hospital, she said ‘Mr Death.’”

“Like the figure I found in her bedroom,” said Kett, nodding to yet another photograph. The little plastic figure of the Reaper grinned at them, its scythe held up over its head. “‘Say hello to Mr Death,’ is what it says on the base.”

“Do you know where she got it?” said Savage.

“I asked her housemate and he didn’t remember,” said Kett. “She’s had it a while. He thinks it’s something to do with the fact that Kathryn was in a car accident a few years ago. She almost died.”

“But she didn’t die,” said Savage, sitting up, suddenly alert. “It was close, but she lived.”

“She woke up,” said Kett, cottoning on.

“And the dead mustn’t wake,” she finished.

They looked at each other, and Kett’s arms crinkled into goosebumps.

“What in the name of Godfrey’s toss are you both blethering about?” said Clare.

Before anyone could answer, the door opened and DS Alison Spalding walked in. She pulled a well-chewed pencil out of her mouth and held up a sheet of paper. There was a photo of a man there, blown up from a driving licence.

“We got lucky,” she said. “Patrick Dodson, fifty-eight years old. His kids are in Ireland. They reported him missing in June, although by that time he’d already been AWOL for six weeks.”

She dropped the first piece of paper to the table, revealing another photograph of the man. He was standing on a beach, naked other than his swimming costume, and Kett saw the ornate tattoos that covered most of his lean body. There was a bird across his chest, its feathers made of fire.

“What kind of monster gets a burning pigeon tattooed on them?” said Duke.

“It’s a phoenix,” said Savage. “Do you know anything about him?”

“I’m working on it,” said Spalding. “He’s ex-army, though. 2nd Royal Tank Regiment. Got hurt in an IED explosion in Afghanistan in, uh, 2019, I think.”

“How hurt?” said Kett.

Spalding shrugged.

“Maybe that’s it,” said Savage. “Maybe that’s what connects the victims. Kathryn and Patrick, they were both in accidents, both hurt. Maybe they all came close to death but didn’t die. That could be why he’s targeting them.”

“That’s insane,” said Porter. “Why the hell would a killer go after you just because you’d survived?”

“I think we can be fairly confident that this guy is off his rocker,” said Clare.

“He’s written it right there on the wall,” said Savage. “It’s important to him, it’s his manifesto. Maybe he’s, uh, maybe he thinks he’s righting a wrong, correcting a mistake.”

“Huh?” said Duke.

“Fixing the natural order of things,” she said with a shrug. She snapped her fingers. “We found the blade, in the van,” she said. “You cut yourself on it, sir. It was a scythe.”

Kett winced at the memory of it, his fingers still throbbing.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Kate?” he said.

“Yes,” said Savage. “It’s been on my mind for a while now, but this feels like it confirms it. What if our killer thinks he’s Death?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Savage’s theory was a leap, for sure. But the more Kett thought about it, the more it felt like she was right.

He sat at his desk in the frigid open-plan offices of the Major Investigation Team, pushing on the pads of his injured fingers. It hurt, but the pain helped focus him, helped keep his tired brain awake.

A photograph of the painted monster in the church sat in front of him. Even on cheap paper and marred by stripes from the department’s ailing printer, the Reaper was still intimidating. Its skeletal face was warped by rage, its burning eyes full of hate. In its hands, the scythe looked every bit the weapon. There was something tawdry about it too, though. It was the kind of image you saw on a cheap heavy metal T-shirt, or on the side of a band’s van.

There was no denying the similarity between this hooded figure, and the one that had been caught on video outside the club. Artem’s eyes weren’t burning, but the image hadn’t quite been blurry enough to hide the intent in his posture, the malice in his face.

Reaper or not, he looked grim.

“Okay, great,” said Savage, who sat at the desk behind him. She was speaking into her phone. “Thanks, Cara.”

She hung up.

“It’s spray paint,” she called over. “The whole thing, even the words.”

“He’s a graffiti artist, then?” said Kett. “Any sign of the cans?”

“No,” she said. “I Googled the phrase. ‘The dead must not wake.’ The only thing I found was a poem. Hang on…”

She clicked her mouse, reading something from the screen.

“‘Wake not the dead, they bring but gloomy night and cheerless desolation into day.’ It’s basically saying that if you wake the dead, then you wake up misery, because you’re reminding yourself of them. I think. ‘Seek not the dead to waken from their sleep, in which from mortal eye they lie enshrouded deep.’”

“Right,” said Kett, the words flying over his head. “Is the poet somebody we can chase up?”

“Um, no, sir,” said Savage. “Johann Tieck. Long dead. Not woken. That exact quote isn’t anywhere in the Bible, or in literature. If you bung it into Google and ask for an exact match, you don’t get anything, which is rare in itself.”

“Okay,” said Kett, holding up the picture. “Like you say, this is his manifesto. It’s written right there. If you’re his victim, hanging from the wall, it’s the one thing you’ve really got to look at. What does it mean to him? What’s he trying to tell them?”

Savage stood up, walking over. She studied the picture for a moment.

“If he truly thinks he’s Death,” she said. “If he’s taken on this role as the Grim Reaper.”

She held up her hands.

“And I’m not sure that’s right,” she said. “That’s just a guess.”

She seemed to consider something for a moment, before spitting it out.

“I spoke to Steph, sir. Cafferty. I didn’t tell her everything, but I gave her a summary, and she thinks it too. Don’t hate me.”

“I don’t,” said Kett, who managed to hide his disapproval. “And it’s better than anything else we’ve got.”

“If he’s Death, then he’s targeting people who he feels should have died,” Savage went on. “The ones who got a second chance. Kathryn Sutton, almost killed in a car crash. But she pulls through. She’s lost everything, but she’s alive. I ran Patrick Dodson’s name as well. The IED killed two people who were on patrol with him. He should have died too, by all accounts, took a piece of shrapnel right through his lung.”

“But he lived,” said Kett.

Savage nodded.

“He’s local?”

“Kind of. He rented a place over in Downham Market. He was on disability, didn’t work.”

“Kathryn wasn’t working either,” said Kett. “Massive inheritance.”

“Dodson’s kids are in Ireland, they didn’t really talk to him much,” Savage went on. “Hadn’t been to see him in years. Landlord said he was quiet, kept himself to himself. No sign of a partner.”

Kett dropped the picture to the desk.

“A fifty-eight-year-old ex-soldier, and a twenty-five-year-old woman who loves pink chiffon and parties. I can’t think of anything else that connects them.”

“Me neither,” said Savage. “And that tattoo on his chest.”

“The pigeon?”

“Phoenix, sir,” she said. “It’s a symbol, isn’t it? Rebirth, a second chance after death. He’s aware of the fact he almost died, it’s important to him as well.”

“We’ve just been through this, Kate,” he said, leaning back and massaging his temples. “Literally three months ago. Reece was trying to send people to help his son, after death. Those tin soldiers who could watch over him in the afterlife. Now this guy’s punishing people for surviving? The world’s gone mad.”

“I think the world is going mad, sir,” said Savage, perching on the desk. “It feels like the end times. Temperatures are red lining, you’ve got wars out there, riots over here. People are scared, I think. And when you’re frightened, properly frightened, you find ways to cope. Somebody like this…”

She looked at the image of the Reaper.

“Maybe he’s close to death? Something terminal? Maybe he thinks the only way he can keep the Reaper away is by sacrificing other people, sending back the ones who Death wasn’t able to take.”

Kett nodded.

“Or they’ve lost somebody,” she went on. “Somebody who didn’t survive. They’re outraged by the unfairness of it, and they’re punishing the ones who got lucky.”

“You’re good at this,” Kett told her.

“Thanks, sir,” she said. “It’s all talk, though, isn’t it? Doesn’t get us anywhere closer to the truth.”

“Maybe it does,” he said. “Keep going, get inside his head, build a profile.”

“Sure,” she said. “That’s exactly what I was planning to do on my wedding night.”

But she was smiling, and Kett smiled back at her.

“I have to say, Kate, you’re taking this better than I would.”

There was a crunch as Clare stormed out of his office. He whirled around, looking for somebody to shout at.

“And I think we’re all taking it better than him,” Savage said quietly.

Kett laughed, and Clare must have seen it because he crossed the room like a man possessed.

“Run!” said Kett, and Savage had to cover her laugh with her hand.

“Believe me, Robert, you couldn’t run fast enough to avoid my fist up your arse,” said Clare as he arrived at Kett’s desk.

“What, sir?”

“We’ve got a lead on the murder room woman,” said the Super, slamming a sheet of paper onto the desk. “The one who was alive. Missing person by the name of Lina Whitehead.”

Kett scooped up the paper, angling it so that Savage could see too. He recognised the person he saw there. He knew her story, because it had been in the news for a while. But he was shaking his head, because there was no way that the vibrant, happy woman in the picture—her blonde hair tied back, her face full of laughter, sitting in a park with a glass of champagne in her hand—could be the same woman they’d found in the church.

Except he could see the similarity in the curve of her nose, the birthmark on her cheek. It was her. Whoever had strung her up inside the church in the woods had sucked the life right out of her, they’d hollowed her out until she was a shell of the woman she had once been. A cheap imitation.

The rush of anger almost took off the top of his head.

“She’s thirty-one,” he said, reading the information. “Last seen on the 29th of June. Went missing while she was out for a run, over on Mousehold Heath. Two young kids at home.”

“What’s her medical history?” asked Savage. “Any illnesses? Accidents?”

“That’s what I want you to find out,” said Clare. “Her wife is expecting you. Off you toss.”

Even if Kett hadn’t had the address, he’d have known they were in the right area. As soon as they hit the north side of the city, he spotted the posters, Lina’s face staring at him from the window of the Co-op on Sprowston Road, then again on the telephone poles as they turned the corner, battered and wind torn.

He drove halfway down the road before pulling into a space, but neither of them made a move to leave the car.

A knock on the door to inform the family about a death was always hard.

This was going to be harder.

He groaned his way out of the Volvo, waiting for Savage to join him on the pavement before making their way to the house. It was one of a long line of Victorian terraced properties that crowded together on this side of the road, all identical other than the colour of their doors and the state of the gardens. The little gate was halfway off its hinges, so Kett stepped over it, walking up the cracked, six-foot-long path. There were pictures up in the front window, children’s scribbles that might have been cats or dogs. One showed a woman with a smiling face, and when he got close enough to read the words written beneath it—please come home mumma—he thought his heart might break clean in two.

His kids had drawn similar pictures when Billie had been taken. They’d left messages like that all over the house, and under their pillows. He’d burned them all after he’d found her, because he never wanted her to see their heartbreak written so clearly in felt tip and crayon.

He pressed the buzzer before he could talk himself out of it. The effect of the doorbell was instantaneous, a round of shouts breaking out inside the house, as shrill as a barking dog. Kett heard running feet, then a woman’s voice from the open window upstairs.

“Wait, Courtney!”

A shape appeared in the frosted glass panel, then the handle turned. The girl who opened the door couldn’t have been older than five, her hair copper-bright and her cheeks blazing. She wore pyjama bottoms and nothing on her top.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Courtney?” came the woman’s voice. “Harry? You better not have opened the door.”

“She’s got a point,” said Savage, leaning down so that she was level with the child. “You should never open the door unless your mum’s with you.”

“Courtney!” the woman bellowed.

“Let’s try again,” said Kett. “Close the door, wait for your mum, yeah?”

The girl nodded, slamming the door in their faces.

“Remind you of anyone?” he said.

Savage didn’t have a chance to answer before the door opened again. A woman stood there, wearing a dressing gown and a towel around her hair. She was dripping wet. The little girl pushed in front of her, squinting up at Kett, utterly fearless.

“Sorry,” said the woman. “It’s always the way, isn’t it? You nip in the shower for five seconds and the doorbell goes.”

“Who are they, Mummy?” said Courtney.

“We’re the ones who’re sorry,” said Kett.

He reached into his pocket for his warrant card, and the woman took a step back, dragging the girl with her like she thought somebody was going to hurt them.

“Ow!” said Courtney.

“You’ve found her?” the woman said, ignoring his ID and staring at his face instead, like she was trying to read his mind. She was shaking her head so hard that the towel had started to come loose. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh God.”

“What is it?” said the girl, picking up on her mum’s distress, clinging to her dressing gown hard enough to pull it open. “Is it Mumma?”

The woman held the dressing gown to her body, trying to back away, to give herself space.

“Hey, Courtney,” said Savage.

The girl turned to her, one hand still gripping her mum.

“Are those your drawings on the window?” she said.

Courtney nodded.

“My cat!” she said.

“Can you draw a picture for me, do you think?” she asked.

Courtney nodded, letting go of her mum and running through the living room.

“Am I okay to sit with her, and your son?” Savage asked.

The woman nodded, knotting the cord of her gown. Her mouth opened and closed, but it was like she’d forgotten how to speak. Savage squeezed past her, following the little girl.

“I’m really sorry,” said Kett. “My name’s Robert Kett, I’m with the police.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve seen you on the TV. I… You do all the… the really awful stuff, I’ve seen it. Please tell me she’s okay. Please tell me you found her.”

“We found her,” he said, and she dissolved into tears. She almost didn’t make it to the sofa before collapsing, pulling her gown around herself with one hand and pushing the other into her face as if she could conceal the sobs. She was trying to keep them quiet, but she couldn’t control them, her breaths coming out as snorts.

Kett entered the cool house, closing the door. He crossed the room and closed the living room door as well, in case the kids came through. The room was small, half a dozen browning spider plants on the mantelpiece and the windowsill. A huge canvas photograph took pride of place on the chimney breast, one of those candid ones from a studio. Lina Whitehead and her wife stood almost doubled up with laughter, Lina’s hand on Courtney’s shoulder as she blew bubbles from a wand. The little boy was the spitting image of his sister, just a couple of years older.

If he’d had any doubts before, he didn’t now. The figure of eight tattoo sat proudly on Lina’s neck.

He sat on the chair next to the sofa, giving the woman a second.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, when she had quietened. “I don’t know your name.”

“Louise,” she said. “Lou.”

Her expression pleaded with him, full of desperate hope.

“Please say she’s okay.”

“She’s alive,” said Kett.

The woman fixed her jaw against the sobs, locked them in her throat. She looked like a piece of broken machinery that was about to blow.

“We found her earlier today,” said Kett. He had to check himself, because it didn’t feel like it had happened today. It felt like a century ago that they’d walked into hell. “This afternoon. In a church.”

“A church?” said Lou. “What church?”

He didn’t know how to tell her, stumbling over the words.

“It’s… it’s not a church, not really. Look, Lou, there’s no easy way of saying this, and… I’m sorry, I really am.”

He took a breath.

“Lina was abducted, she was attacked. She’s been held for weeks, since she was taken.”

Lou was shaking her head, her hand to her mouth.

“She’s badly hurt, physically and mentally. She’s… she’s been starved, and drugged. But she’s alive. She’s alive, and they think she’ll pull through.”

“Where is she?” said Lou. “I need to see her.”

“She’s safe,” Kett told her. “She’s in hospital, and you can see her. But I need you to prepare yourself, because… because she’s in a bad way. It’s going to be hard to see her like that.”

“No it’s not,” said Lou, struggling to haul her weight up from the sofa. “I don’t care what she looks like. I just need to be with her.”

Kett nodded.

“We’ll drive you over,” he said. “But your kids, I don’t think they should be there. Not yet. They don’t want this memory of their mum.”

He thought of Billie. He couldn’t help himself. He thought of how she’d looked when he’d found her in that basement in Hackney. She hadn’t been herself, either. She’d been somebody else, somebody filled with rage, somebody who’d wanted to kill him. He was eternally grateful that his girls had never seen their mother like that.

Lou looked like she was going to argue with him, but after a second or two she nodded.

“They can stay with Helen next door,” she said. “I’ll get dressed.”

“Hang on just a second,” said Kett. “It’s extremely important that we find the person who did this to your wife, Lou. I need to ask some questions.”

“There’s no time,” said Lou. “Please, can we go?”

“Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all.”

She nodded, although she didn’t sit back down.

“This is going to sound like an odd thing to ask, but bear with me,” said Kett. “Has Lina ever been through something bad? A near-death experience? An accident? Anything like that.”

Lou shook her head, frowning.

“Her aneurysm?” she said.

“She had an aneurysm?”

“Years ago. Cerebral. In the brain. Before we met. How we met. I’m a physical therapist, I helped her get back on her feet.”

“When was this?”

“Uh, 2012,” she said. “We always used to joke that the world would end. Remember that? Everyone predicted 2012 would be the apocalypse. Lina’s world did nearly end, but then a whole new one started. For both of us.”

“Sorry to ask, Lou, but how close to death was she?”

“Why?” she said, clutching her dressing gown tight around her throat.

“I can’t say. Not yet. But it’s important.”

“She did die,” said the woman. “She was clinically dead for four minutes before they brought her back.”

Kett felt the chill run through him, as if the planet had been knocked off its orbit, spinning away from the sun.

“Why?” she asked again.

He debated it for a second, then spoke.

“Lina isn’t the only person who’s been taken by this man,” he said. “There are others. Some… some didn’t survive.”

Lou’s legs obviously couldn’t hold her, because she crumpled onto the sofa.

“This is confidential,” he said. “You can’t share this information with anyone, not until we’ve found him. And we might be wrong about it. But we think that he may be targeting people who have been close to death at some point in their life.”

“Why?” said Lina.

He wished he had an answer for her.

“Where was Lina treated?”

“Here,” she said. “The N&N. She had a boyfriend back then, he drove her in. They managed to open her head and stop the bleeding. She was there for weeks while she recovered. They thought she was paralysed for a while. Her boyfriend left her while she was lying there. Buggered off and never came back.”

“Can you remember the names of the doctors who worked on her?” Kett asked. “Anyone who was involved in her treatment.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “But I’ll try. You think one of them… You think one of them took her? They were just people, just doctors and nurses and… They weren’t killers.”

“Anything you can remember,” said Kett. “If you can write it down for us, it will really help.”

“Now?”

“No,” he said, standing up. “But today, Lou. It has to be today. Let’s get you to the hospital, you can tell me on the way.”

She started crying again, with relief this time. He turned away while she struggled out of the sofa, looking at the portrait on the wall.

“It’s not fair, is it?” she said when she was back on her feet. “It’s not fair to do that to somebody.”

Kett shook his head.

“You go through what Lina did, you die, but you fight it, and you come back. You survive. And somebody holds that against you? Somebody uses that as a reason to hurt you?”

“Like I said, we might be wrong.”

“She felt awful, you know,” said Lou, one hand on the door. “She hated herself for it.”

“For the aneurysm?”

“For living,” said Lou. “She had this guilt, she carried it everywhere. The idea that somehow she was given the gift of surviving but so many others had the same thing and didn’t make it. It was like this weight around her shoulders. Even with all the good that followed, me and the kids and this whole new world we built, she never forgave herself.”

She opened the door, pausing there.

“She never forgave herself for living.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Savage dropped the Whitehead kids with the old lady next door, then Kett drove Lou to the hospital. For the entire journey, he felt like he was counting down to a catastrophic explosion, but when he finally escorted Lou into the room, and she laid eyes on her wife, all she did was walk to the bed and engulf her in a hug.

He watched them for a moment, amazed—as he so often was when he met survivors—how strong they were, both of them. Then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Savage was talking with the two PCs who were on sentry duty outside the ward. One was PC Felicity Niven, back in uniform after the wedding.

“You any closer to catching this guy, sir?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said. “But we will.”

Savage led the way across A&E to the ward where Kathryn was being treated, nodding to the PC on duty. Kett was surprised to find that, other than the injured woman herself, the room was empty, no sign of the friends that she’d been out with, no sign of her roommate. She lay face down in bed, her eyes closed, her breath rhythmic. Every few seconds her body would twitch and jolt, and he knew what she was seeing in her dreams.

“She had any visitors?” he asked the duty nurse.

“Nope,” she said. “But it wouldn’t matter if she had. She’s out of it. Hasn’t woken up. Whatever happened to her, she’s still fighting it.”

They walked back to the car, but Savage didn’t get in. She leaned on the roof of the Volvo, thinking about something. The sun had dipped below the roof of the hospital, but the heat wasn’t going anywhere, promising another muggy night.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Kett when she didn’t speak.

“I’m just trying to understand what he’s getting out of this,” she said. “The killer. If we’re right, and he’s angry at his victims for surviving, if he thinks they should be dead, then why is he keeping them alive?”

“He’s not,” said Kett. “Five of them literally died. Two in the church, three in the ground. Lina and Kathryn weren’t far off.”

“But Lina was there for weeks,” she said. “He must have been feeding her, giving her water. And he could have left Kathryn to bleed out, right, when she pulled herself free? If she pulled herself free. But whatever happened, he took her to the church. He wanted her to be found.”

“Might not have been him who took her,” said Kett. “Somebody could have seen her on the road, dropped her off at the nearest place. There’s not that much distance between the woods and the church.”

It sounded as unlikely when he said it as it had in his head.

“Let’s just assume it was the killer,” said Savage. “Why is he keeping some of his victims alive, but not others?”

Kett shrugged, picking at the bandages on his fingers.

“Maybe he’s testing them,” he said.

“Yeah, I thought the same thing,” said Savage. “He wants some kind of proof that they’re strong enough to resist death.”

“How so?”

“Well, Lina didn’t die. She hung on that frame for weeks, sir, but she didn’t give in.”

“And Kathryn pulled herself free,” said Kett.

“Exactly. They passed the test. It was enough to make him release her.”

“But surely if he let Kathryn go for that reason, he’d have taken Lina too.”

“Unless…”

Savage’s brow furrowed, and Kett gave her the time she needed.

“Unless he doesn’t want to think of himself as a killer,” she said. “His job is to set them up for death, to leave them there to die. But he doesn’t actually want to kill them. Kathryn hurt herself when she tore free. The killer might have been there when she did it. He panicked, took her somewhere he knew she’d be safe, because he doesn’t want her blood on his hands, literally.”

She scratched at the roof of the car with her thumb nail.

“Which leads to another massive question,” she said.

“Why bring her to the church?” said Kett.

She looked up, like she expected him to have an answer.

“I could tell you it was a coincidence,” he said. “But what are the chances, Kate? All of us in the same place, in a church, about to celebrate your wedding, and he brings Kathryn there?”

“Maybe he wants us to find him,” she said. “He wants us to stop him. He could have brought Kathryn to the church because he’s having second thoughts about what he’s doing. And if he’s having doubts, then he might need help. It happens more than you might think.”

“Or maybe it’s something else,” said Kett. He turned to the hospital, looking at the buzz of people, at the shifting tide of the sick and those who were trying to help them. How many times had he been here in the years since he’d relocated to Norwich? “Because we’ve all been close to death, Kate. We’ve all teetered right on the edge of it, and survived.”

He turned back to Savage.

“Maybe he knew we’d be there because he knows us. Maybe we’re on his list.”

“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head.

Kett didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop. Because if the killer was aware of Kett and the team, then he might be aware of Billie, too. He might know about the girls. That night in Bingo’s house where they’d danced with the devil, and lived.

The ringing in his ears was so loud that he almost didn’t hear his phone. It was Clare.

“Sir?”

“Get back here, Robert,” said the Super, and he sounded surprisingly cheerful. “Porter and Duke have found our killer.”

“You alright there, Artem?” said Porter.

He stood with Duke in the courtyard behind a derelict building on Aylsham Road, looking at the security fence that had been set up to stop intruders. It had worked, but only just. Artem Melnyk, the bollock-headed bear of a man who they’d fought inside the club, hung by his handcuffed wrists from a spike on the top. The toes of his trainers were on the ground, scuffing and scraping as he tried to support his body weight. His black shirt had rucked up, exposing a barrel of a belly, heavily tattooed.

Two more constables waited next to them. They’d responded at the same time as Duke when the call had come in. Somebody in the flats at the back of the warehouse had spotted the huge Ukrainian prowling in the alley, and had called it in when he’d started scaling the fence. He’d managed to slip on his way over, the handcuffs hooking him in place. That had been twenty minutes ago.

It was a long time to be suspended by your arms.

“He looks fine, sir,” said Duke. “He’s just hanging around.”

“We all thought of that joke, Aaron,” said Porter. “But none of us stooped low enough to say it.”

Duke pouted, which made his moustache look even more ridiculous.

“Help me,” said Artem, his accent thick. His bald head was beetroot red, and he was so sweaty that it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped out of the cuffs.

“We will,” said Porter. “But before we do, we have to be sure you won’t come after us again.”

“I won’t,” he said, struggling feebly. “I swear.”

“And we’re going to need to ask you some questions,” said Porter. “While we wait for the ladder.”

A third constable had run off to try to find one, although Porter had no idea where she’d manage that. They could reach the cuffs easily enough by stretching, of course, but he couldn’t think of a better way of interrogating somebody than suspending them by their wrists.

“Thursday night,” he said. “Friday morning. You followed a young woman out of Kabanas.”

“What?” said Artem, struggling for breath. He tugged on the cuffs, his feet scrabbling for purchase. “No woman.”

“Black dress, brown hair,” Porter went on. He found the photo of Kathryn on his phone and held it up, although he didn’t think Artem was in any state to pay attention to it. “Her name’s Kathryn Sutton. She was in the club, left via the fire exit after getting a phone call. Was that you?”

“Huh?” he said. “No phone.”

“Is that why you were deleting the security footage on the laptop?”

“Huh?” he said again.

“What happened after you followed her?” he went on. “You kidnapped her, right? Did you drug her? An injection, Rohypnol and ketamine. It would have knocked her out. Then what? You put her in your car?”

The man’s eyes were almost as big as they had been when he’d had a faceful of coke.

“I no do any of this,” he said.

“Or was it somebody else’s car?” asked Porter. “Did somebody help you? Who was the driver?”

Artem spouted a string of angry sounding words in Ukrainian, ending it with a gob of spit that landed between them.

“Nice,” said Duke.

“See, we know you’re a violent man, Artem,” said Porter. “We know you’re happy enough to stomp on the head of a police officer. We’ve seen you rammed off your brain on drugs. But why kill them, eh? Why hang them from the wall like that?”

He noted the similarity in the way Artem was hanging.

“Like this,” he finished.

“You are mad,” the big man said. “I killed no one.”

“So what were you doing?” said Porter, taking a step closer. “Because it was you leaving the club at one in the morning, wasn’t it?”

“I leave,” he said, tugging his arms to try to free himself. His wrists looked raw. “I end my shift at one, I leave.”

“Did you see the woman? Kathryn?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know. Many women in club. They always outside. I do not know this Kathryn.”

“Where did you go when you left the club?” asked Porter.

“Please,” said Artem, a desperate wail. “It hurts. Get me down.”

“Ladder’ll be here in a minute,” said Duke. “Hang tight.”

Porter shot him a glare before continuing.

“Tell me where you went.”

“Number Fourteen,” he said. “I always go on Thursday.”

The first seed of doubt planted itself in Porter’s head.

“Number Fourteen? The brothel?”

Artem nodded as best as he was able. Number Fourteen was fairly notorious. It had started on the other side of the city, a big house with a lot of women, mostly Eastern European. The original address had been number fourteen, and it had kept the name even though it had moved a few times since then. As far as brothels went, it was relatively safe for the women who worked there, which is why Norfolk Constabulary turned a blind eye, unless they’d had reports of something worse.

“You working there, or visiting?”

“Neither,” said Artem. “I fucking.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Porter. “You went straight there? What time?”

“It close, I get there after one.”

“Shit,” said Porter.

“What is it, sir?” asked Duke.

“Fourteen’s got a lot of security,” he said. “And a lot of cameras.”

He turned back to the man.

“What time did you leave?”

“Dawn,” he said. “Sun was up.”

Porter threw back his head.

“There’s no way you make up a story like that,” he said quietly. “Way too embarrassing, and too easy to check.”

He turned back to the man.

“Why were you deleting the footage on the laptop, then?”

“Drugs,” he said, squirming. “Club always bringing in drugs, sell to customers.”

“Raz?”

“Yes, Raz,” he spat, and let off another machine gun rattle in his native language.

For a second, Porter and Duke stood in silence. Artem hung there like a sad pinata, his toes on the ground.

“My balls hurt,” he said.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Porter.

He heard a clatter, turning to see the constable returning. She was carrying the most enormous ladder he’d ever seen, probably twenty feet long. She almost put it through the window of the warehouse as she turned the corner.

“Got this from the lads at the hardware shop down the road,” she said through a grin. “Is it big enough?”

“Yeah,” Porter said, dryly. “I think it will reach.”

Duke took the ladder from her, leaning it against the fence—which was hard to do, given that the fence was only about eight foot tall. He made a show of climbing onto the first rung, slipping the key into the handcuffs. Artem slid out of them like a parcel through a letterbox, his legs folding underneath him as he hit the ground. The two other constables rushed in, one of them slipping on another set of cuffs, this time with his arms behind his back.

“What do you want us to do with him, sir?” he asked.

“Book him,” said Porter.

“What charge?”

“Being a dickhead.”

He watched as they hauled the big man away, then he pulled out his phone, calling Clare.

“Give me good news, Pete,” said the Super when he answered.

“I wish I could, sir, but it’s not him.”

There was an atmosphere in the air when Kett walked back into the bullpen, the same tension there would have been before a public execution. A crowd had gathered around Porter’s desk like mourners at a funeral. Clare was there, Duke and Spalding, and a couple of detectives from the MIT, all looking over Porter’s shoulder at the computer monitor.

“Got something?” he asked as he walked up. He stood on his tiptoes to see over the collection of heads and shoulders. Savage squeezed in next to him.

“I’ll tell you what we don’t have,” snapped Clare. “Our killer.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“Artem’s got an alibi,” said Porter. “Brothel. We checked, he’s all over their external cameras about ten minutes after he leaves the club. Appears again after five.”

“But we’ve got some good news,” said Duke, nodding to the screen.

“What is it?”

“Quiet,” snapped Clare. “If you’d wanted to watch it, you’d have been here on time.”

Kett slid on his glasses, seeing a street on the monitor. The pixelated feed was shrouded in darkness, the streetlights glowing green, which is why it took him a little while to recognise where it was.

“That’s St Faith’s Lane,” he said. “Round the back of the club.”

“Zip it,” said Clare. “We already know that.”

Kett checked the timestamp, 12:54AM.

“That’s right about when Kathryn leaves the club.”

“Stop flapping, man!” said Clare. “We know!”

“Where did you get this?”

“One of the houses has a doorbell camera,” said Porter. “Footage has literally just arrived, we⁠—”

“Stop talking to him,” said Clare. “He doesn’t deserve to know.”

“Sir, I was working, we were at the⁠—”

“Cram a sock in it, Detective.”

Kett shot evils into the back of the Superintendent’s head.

“I felt that,” said Clare.

Kett turned his eyes back to the screen instead, watching the footage unfold. For the better part of a minute, nothing happened. Then the street began to brighten.

“Come on,” said Porter. “Be good.”

A sleek, black motorbike pulled into view, slowing down as it made its way along the lane.

“Bike,” said Porter.

“Are you sure?” said Clare in mock surprise.

The rider was all in black as well, the tinted visor concealing their face. There was a spare helmet hanging from the handlebars. The footage wasn’t good enough to make out any details, the figure little more than a blur.

“Can’t see who it is,” said Duke.

“Can’t see who it is,” parroted the Superintendent in a whiny voice.

The bike moved off screen, but it must have stopped a little further up the street because Kett could see the fire from its back light. Shadows played over the road, dancing, then the light swept back round in a smooth arc, the bike following. It accelerated soundlessly up the street.

This time, there were two people on it.

“Back it up,” barked Clare.

He leaned over, slapping at Porter’s hand on the mouse.

“I’m doing it, sir!” said the DI.

He scrubbed back and played the footage again, this time freezing it. The person riding pillion had pulled on the spare helmet, but it was Kathryn’s dress, her shoes, her hair spilling down her back. Even though it was perfectly clear who it was, nobody dared speak it for fear of getting shot down by the Superintendent.

Clare looked at them all, aghast.

“That’s Kathryn Sutton, you idiots,” he said. “Are you blind?”

“This is good,” said Savage. “This narrows it down. Can’t see the plates, but it looks like a Ducati.”

“A Monster,” said Duke.

“I don’t care what you think of it, Constable,” said Clare.

“No, sir, that’s what it’s called. Looks like a 1200. It’s an expensive bike.”

“Not massively common, either,” said Savage. “It’s black. Most people buy them in red.”

“How do you know all this?” said Kett.

“Encyclopaedia Jones,” said Porter.

“I’ll check DVLA,” said Spalding, walking off.

Porter pressed play again, all of them watching the bike zoom out of view. The plates were a blur, not a single digit legible. About a minute after that, the big man in the black hoody shuffled past, glancing back over his shoulder. It was obvious that it was the same person Porter and Duke had fought in the club. He walked off, oblivious to anything.

“Somebody should probably go let him out of holding,” said Porter.

“And apologise,” added Duke, “for his balls.”

“He’s still on the hook for the cocaine,” said Clare. “And for the fact he beat both of you up.”

“Didn’t beat me up,” said the two men at almost exactly the same time.

“Well, that’s our kidnapping theory blown out of the window,” said Clare. “Kathryn gets on that bike willingly. She’s got her arms around him for Christ’s sake. Is she awake yet?”

“No,” said Savage. “And she may not remember anything even when she is. The drugs will have fried her short-term memory.”

“That might not be the man who took her,” said Kett. “He could be a date. She could have been abducted later, after she’d left him.”

“And just because she gets on the bike willingly doesn’t mean he’s not the killer,” said Savage. “Most women are attacked by people they know. He easily could have ridden to the woods and taken her into the church.”

Clare’s phone started to ring, and he pulled it out of his pocket like he’d found a live leech in there. He stormed off to answer the call.

Porter rewound the footage so that the bike was on-screen again, Kathryn on the back. She really did look like she knew the rider, her hands wrapped around his waist and her helmet resting on his back. It was almost intimate.

“We should get this picture to the press,” said Savage. “Somebody must know him.”

“Good idea,” said Kett.

“He’ll be on the run, surely,” said Porter, his chair creaking as he sat back. “He based his entire operation in that church, and he can’t go back to it. Be a while before he can set up again.”

“Especially if he’s methodical,” said Savage. “He seems like the kind of killer who needs to follow rules.”

“With any luck,” said Kett.

When he saw Clare coming back, though, he felt his heart sink. The Super had lost what little was left of his colour, his face as bone white as the Grim Reaper’s.

“What?” said Kett.

Clare walked up to them, his phone still in his hand.

“That was Cara,” he said. “She’s still at the church. She’s been so busy in the murder room that she’s only just sent somebody to the outbuildings.”

It took Kett a moment to remember what he was talking about: the two sheds in the clearing in the woods.

It was like somebody had cranked the air con down to its lowest setting.

“The bags,” said Kett. “The clothes. I’d completely forgotten about them.”

Clare nodded.

“Forensics have gone through them. It looks like the killer’s taken out anything that could be used to identify the victims. But that’s not the problem.”

He stopped, belching into his free hand. He looked like he was about to throw up.

“There are at least ten separate outfits in those bags,” he said, his voice a husk. “And probably more.”

“Ten?” said Porter.

“Ten,” Clare echoed. “We found four people in the murder room, including Lina and Kathryn. There were three more buried in the woods…”

“Christ,” said Kett, his hands in his hair.

“Wait, he’s killed three more people?” said Porter. “Where the hell are they?”

“That’s the problem,” said Kett. “We don’t know if he’s killed them. The church might not be his only murder room. If he’s operating from multiple places then… Shit, they could be alive.”

He put his hands in his hair, squeezing so hard it hurt.

“They could still be out there.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There would be no going home, Savage knew. This was how she would be spending the night of her wedding—or not-wedding, as it had turned out—sitting at her desk trying to get inside the mind of a madman.

It was hard to concentrate on anything, her eyes slipping between lines of text, photographs blurring. It was gone ten, although she wasn’t sure how that had happened. The lack of sleep last night, combined with the emotion of the day, made her feel as if she was standing outside of her own skull, watching herself like a ghost.

“Come on, Kate,” she said. “Pull it together.”

They weren’t just trying to catch a killer now, they were trying to save his victims. If there was even the slightest chance that their suspect had another base of operation, another house of horrors where people had been crucified against the wall, then sleep didn’t matter.

They had to find them.

The discovery that there might be more victims had forced their hand when it came to the press. Kett and Superintendent Clare had given a news conference two hours ago, revealing the photograph of the motorbike and rider, and a careful summary of what had happened. They’d mentioned the fact that the victims had survived accidents and disease before they’d been taken, although hearing Clare talk about it made it sound like he was the insane one. They’d spared the public the worst of the details, but not all of them. Monsters of this magnitude didn’t come along often.

Even in this part of the world.

“It goes without saying that this suspect is incredibly dangerous,” Kett had told the cameras as the conference had come to an end. “Please be careful. Please be vigilant. And please look out for each other.”

The calls had come flooding in after that, mostly from people who’d filed missing person reports over the years. The bullpen was full to bursting, detectives and constables from every department pulling overtime to try to separate the genuine callers from the cranks and the crazies. It was an impossible job.

So was hers. Cross-referencing missing people with near-death experiences was hugely time-consuming, and mentally exhausting. Every time she opened a file and found a man or a woman or a child looking back at her, she imagined the killer’s needles pushing into the flesh of their arms and legs, the wire pulled taut. She imagined them waking up to the pain of their mutilation, to the terror of being inside a room, unable to move.

And what else? What did he do to them there? That was still a mystery, but they knew about the inferno of lights in the ceiling. Savage had almost been deafened by the music that had been blasted from the speakers. Did he leave it playing? For hours? It was a particularly cruel kind of torture, one designed to loosen the fabric of your mind, to unthread your sanity stitch by stitch.

But she kept going, working through the names from the reports, running search histories, trying to find newspaper articles and hospital records, looking for anything that might provide a clue to their past. Every time she got close, she picked up the phone, but all she managed to do was open the wounds of the mothers and fathers and children and spouses who she spoke to. Nobody could tell her anything new, because they’d already told it all.

It was after eleven when Spalding called them into the Incident Room. Savage took the seat next to her butchered wedding cake, trying to ignore the finger trenches that Clare had left in it, staring instead at the figurines on the top. Somebody had drawn a little moustache on the face of the groom, which brought a smile to her face. She pulled the bride out of the icing while she waited for everyone else, standing her on the table.

“It will happen, little Kate,” she told it. “Be patient.”

Kett was the last one in, and he closed the door behind him. In the relative quiet of the room, all Savage wanted to do was sleep.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” said Spalding when they were all inside.

“Neither,” said Clare.

“The bad news is that we’ve traced the number that called Kathryn’s phone in the club,” said Spalding.

“That’s good news,” said Porter.

“Not really, sir,” she said. “It’s a burner, paid for in cash, and registered with a single-use email address. It was activated once, at 12:49 on Thursday night, in a call lasting four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Hasn’t been used again.”

“Shit,” said the DI. “What’s the good news?”

“There isn’t any,” said Spalding. “It’s all bad news. There are only four black Ducati 1200s in the county.”

“That’s good news,” Porter chanced.

“Would you stop bloody jinxing it, Pete!” yelled Clare.

“Two of those bikes have been stolen in the last year,” Spalding went on. “The two owners that we can trace both have alibis. One’s not living in Norfolk any more, he’s over in the Midlands. The other’s a rig worker, he’s been offshore for weeks.”

“Shit,” said Porter.

“The man in the Midlands, does he have an alibi for Thursday?” asked Kett. “The killer could have a base over that way too.”

“No alibi, sir,” said Spalding. “But he came off his bike last year, broke his foot, hasn’t been riding much since.”

“Still not imposs⁠—”

“He’s also seventy-six,” said Spalding.

“It’s not him,” said Clare, banging a fist on the desk hard enough to startle Savage out of her drowsiness. “If the bike’s been stolen, we’ve hit a dead end.”

“I’ll ask some of my contacts, sir,” said Porter. “See if any of the chop shops have taken it in and sold it on.”

Clare nodded, his eyes ringed with dark circles. He stared at the wall for a moment, at the images of the victims, then he got up and left the room without a word. Everyone went the same way, trudging back to the bullpen, all except for Duke, who stayed in the room with Savage. She still hadn’t got used to the fact that he’d shaved his beard, and the shock of that chin still gave her a jolt every time she saw it.

But it just meant there was more of him to love.

Duke pulled the little plastic groom from the cake frosting, putting it on the table next to her bride. He jiggled it as he spoke, his voice even deeper than usual.

“I love you, Cake Savage,” he said, and despite everything the laughter tumbled out of her.

She turned her figurine towards him.

“I love you too, Mr Duke,” she squeaked. “I wish we were on our honeymoon right now.”

“Me too,” he said, and he leaned his figurine forwards so that it could boop heads with hers. He made a kissy sound as they connected. “It will be okay, the next wedding will be even better, because I wuv you very much and I always⁠—”

“What in the name of Kingdom Come are you two tossers doing?”

Duke screamed, hurling the little groom so hard that it hit the ceiling. Clare stood in the Incident Room door, wearing the expression of a parent who’d walked in to see their kid pooping on the kitchen floor.

“Uh, sorry, sir,” said Savage, getting out of her chair. “We’re, uh…”

“You can save your cake puppet sex show for later,” he said. “Somebody’s outside, and they want to talk to you.”

“Me, sir?” she said.

Clare walked off, leaving the room silent and her heart palpitating. Duke had picked the figurine up off the floor and he was looking at it sadly. The head had come off.

“How’s he going to consummate his marriage vows now?” he asked.

“I’ll just be a second,” said Savage, heading for the door.

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Duke replied, following her. “God knows who’s out there. It could be him.”

She gave him an appreciative smile, and, when they were out of the bullpen and in the safety of the corridor, a kiss. It was the first one they’d had since the wedding had been cancelled, she realised, because his chin felt weird and his moustache tickled more than the full beard had. But she kissed him deeply, one hand on his stubbled face, and he kissed her back.

Only for a second, though, because the thought of Clare appearing behind them was genuinely terrifying.

They headed through reception, where Shelley pointed to the car park.

“Who is it?” said Savage.

“Some old woman,” was the reply.

“What old woman?” asked Duke as they stepped outside.

The air was hot and heavy after the merciful cool of HQ, thick enough to swim in. Savage walked along the rows of parked cars, bathed in the yellow glow of the lights, trying to work out who would come to see her. The only old woman she knew was her gran, but there was no way she’d head into the city this late at night. And she wouldn’t wait out here in the dark, either, she’d be inside demanding a cuppa.

She couldn’t think of anyone else, and she was grateful for the uniformed coppers who patrolled, just in case it was the killer who lurked in the shadows between the vehicles. Kett was right, they’d all escaped death, more than once. There was every chance they were on the Reaper’s list.

In the end, though, it was a familiar face who stepped out from between two cars.

“Oh my God,” said Savage. “Enid?”

Enid Heathen, the woman they’d encountered on the Saint Killer case three months ago, leaned against the bonnet of a Vauxhall, folding her arms over her chest. She was dressed the same way she had been back in May, a stiff black dress that would have been better suited to Victorian times. It spilled out around her ankles, pooling on the ground. Her hair was a mound of grey shaped with various ribbons, a chopstick thrust through the middle to hold it all in place. Her face crinkled into a genuine smile, her eyes the youngest thing about her.

“Surprise,” she said, her voice crunching like dry leaves underfoot.

“What are you doing here?” said Savage. “You know we’ve been looking for you?”

At the end of the last case, they’d discovered that Enid had been watching over a group of young people; all drug addicts and ex-gang members who’d found in her something they hadn’t been able to get anywhere else. None of that would have been illegal, of course, except for the fact that the posse of displaced youths she’d assembled had taken it upon themselves to clean up the streets of the city.

The Iron Soldiers, they’d called themselves. Vigilantes in hoodies.

In truth, though, Savage couldn’t bring herself to do anything but love the old woman. It was because of her that one of the soldiers had been inside the mirror maze when Reece had gone after Duke and Porter.

She was the only reason they were still alive.

“Are you okay?” Savage asked, stepping closer so she could speak more quietly.

“We are,” said Enid, glancing back into the shadows.

Savage had to lean to the side to see who stood behind her. Duke walked with her, one hand on his baton. Even when he saw who it was, he didn’t relax.

“Easy, big man,” said the kid.

The young man wore a grey tracksuit, the hood up. But Savage saw the dark skin, the blue eyes. It was the kid who, according to Porter, had knocked the killer out cold with a fire extinguisher. He smiled, a flash of white teeth.

“Nice tache,” he said. “Proper Errol Flynn, now, innit.”

“Thanks,” said Duke, genuinely chuffed. He gave it a stroke.

“What are you doing here?” Savage asked again. “It’s not safe, for either of you.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Enid, the lines of her face deepening as the smile fell away. Her Eastern European accent seemed more pronounced. “This man that you are chasing. This murderer. You have caught him?”

“No,” said Savage. “Not yet. You know something?”

Enid shook her head, but the lad spoke up.

“Took one of ours, didn’t he.”

“What?” said Savage. “Somebody you know?”

Enid nodded.

“A young woman,” she said. “Marla, just seventeen. She came to us a year ago, after she overdosed. Thrown out of her house. She had nowhere else to go. We cared for her.”

“Never got her off the gear, though,” said the lad. “She was always chasing.”

“We lost her three weeks ago,” said Enid. “She left the safe house, never came back.”

“How do you know it was⁠—”

“She was with a friend,” said Enid. “Another girl, another addict. Aisha. She told us Marla had left with a man, on the back of his motorbike.”

Somebody slammed a car door, and Savage almost left her own skin.

“Black bike,” said the kid. “Black outfit. Marla went with him because she wanted to.”

“We assumed it was a dealer,” said Enid. “A boyfriend. We did not know where to look, and we thought maybe she did not want to be found.”

“Hard girl to help,” said the kid.

“Now that’s not fair, Kofi,” said Enid. “She was working on herself, she was getting help, getting better. But when you have been that close to death…”

She shook her head, clucking her tongue.

“You carry it with you,” she went on. “In your heart, in your soul. When you’ve seen that darkness, you never truly escape it. You both know the truth of that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Duke.

But Savage knew. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the void. The promised dark.

“She was getting help,” said Enid. “She was trying. It is why I was surprised that she chose to leave us.”

“I wasn’t,” said Kofi, pulling his hood back to run a hand through his hair.

“Her friend didn’t tell you anything else about the man on the bike?” said Savage. “A description? Hair colour? Licence plates, anything like that.”

“Black helmet, visor down,” said Kofi. “She said she thought the rider’s name might be Dan, because of the plate. DAN, or D4N. She didn’t really see it.”

“We thought we might know him,” said Enid. “We asked around, called in favours. He isn’t a dealer, he isn’t in the trade. But Marla knew him from somewhere. Aisha said she was laughing when she got on the bike.”

“Where was this?” Savage asked.

“In the city,” said Enid. “The house by the tower, where I told you your fortune.”

Savage had almost managed to forget that, but it came back to her now: the pictures on the cards, the warnings of calamity, ruin.

And death.

“24th July,” said Kofi. “Just before ten in the evening.”

“You filed a report?” she asked.

Enid and Kofi shared a look, and she knew what they were going to say.

“You didn’t,” she answered for them. “Why?”

“How many people are missing right now?” said the woman. “How many files lie on your desk?”

Savage knew the statistics. 170,000 missing every year across the country.

“A young woman, a known addict,” Enid went on. “Chooses to leave her family, chooses to leave me, chooses to leave with a man on a motorcycle. How far would you have looked?”

“We would have looked,” said Savage.

An engine started, a car pulling out of a space and throwing a beam of bright light over Enid and the young man. It drove off, and they dropped into darkness again.

“What does he do to them, this man?” said Enid, reaching into the folds of her dress and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. The concern on her face was genuine, her eyes weeping.

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

“I do,” the old woman said. “Their pain is my pain, it has always been that way.”

Savage sighed, looked at Duke. He shrugged.

“He keeps them in a room,” she said. “In a church, or someplace like it. He… he stitches their arms and legs to a wooden frame to stop them escaping.”

“Fuck me,” said Kofi, taking a step back. “For real?”

“He tortures them,” she went on, “with bright lights, with loud music. Drugs them.”

She blew out a trembling breath.

“Then he starves them to death.”

For a minute or so, nobody spoke. Enid didn’t look like an old woman any more, she looked like a corpse, the spark gone from her eyes. She clung to the packet of cigarettes with both hands.

“Why?” said Kofi, his voice quiet.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Savage.

“He’s sending them to their judgement,” said Enid. “To their rightful fate.”

The woman pulled a cigarette from the packet, and Kofi lit it for her. She inhaled deeply, the tip flaring in the dark. Her next words were made of smoke.

“The divine balance. A current of life flowing into death. We are all caught in it, and there is no way of reversing the flow, no way of pulling yourself out. Only some people do. The waters release them, the eddies loosen their grip. They slip free, for a moment.”

“Huh?” said Duke.

Enid took another long drag.

“If you believe in the balance of the universe, as I do, then you believe everybody has a time to meet their maker.”

“But if you don’t die, it’s not your time,” said Savage. “Simple as that.”

She looked at Kofi.

“You saved Aaron’s life, Porter’s too, which meant it wasn’t their time, yeah?”

“I have no idea what anyone is saying,” said Duke. “And I’m pretty sure you only saved Porter’s life.”

Enid’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“It doesn’t matter what we believe,” the old woman said. “This is what he believes. I saw your man on the television, I heard what he said. This killer thinks that his victims cheated death, but this may not be a punishment.”

“How so?” asked Savage.

“Perhaps he thinks they are better off dead,” she went on. “Perhaps surviving has denied them passage to a better place.”

Savage nodded.

“He’s giving them what he thinks they want?”

“So when he hurts them and tortures them and kills them, he’s actually doing them a favour?” said Duke, one eyebrow raised.

“In his eyes, yes,” said Enid. She lifted the cigarette to her mouth, hesitating. “Or not. Who am I to know?”

“What was her surname?” said Savage. “The girl.”

“Called herself Fisher,” said Kofi. “No idea if she was telling the truth.”

“Can you get all this to me in writing?” said Savage. “Marla’s name, her details, exactly where she was when she was picked up.”

Enid looked to Kofi, and he nodded.

“Anything you can tell me about her,” Savage went on. “Any people she was talking to, her friends, her family. If she knew her attacker, then there’s a chance that you do too, or someone else in your circle.”

Enid nodded, breathing out a lungful of acrid smoke. Savage waved it away.

“And I need to know everything about the overdose,” she said. “She was treated here, in the city?”

“Yarmouth,” said Kofi. “Before we knew her, though. She was hanging with a crew out there, got brought to us after she was discharged by one of Enid’s friends at the hospital. She knew we were the only people who could take care of her.”

His words rung hollow, and he seemed to know it.

“We did take care of her,” said Enid. “Until she left us.”

“Just write it all down,” said Savage. She looked back towards the door to HQ. “It’s really not safe for you to be here. You’re still people of interest in a whole bunch of cases, even though, you know, you helped us solve them.”

“We are going,” said Enid, grimacing in pain as she pushed herself away from the car. She took one more drag, then crushed the cigarette beneath her heel. “Please find her. She is a good child. She wanted to get better. She was getting better.”

Enid reached out and put her hand on Savage’s heart, hard enough to push her back a little.

“I see the same spirit in you that I did in her, Kate Savage. The same I see in myself. A darkness, that births its own light. Use it. Find her.”

She gave her another gentle push before walking away. Savage put her hand to her chest, feeling the heat of the woman’s touch there, the throb of contact. Enid looped her arm through Kofi’s and they set off together, an old woman and a former gangbanger turned vigilante. It made for a strange sight.

“Hang on a second,” said Duke.

They looked back.

“You said Marla was getting better, she was trying to help herself,” he said. “How did you mean?”

“Came to us, innit,” said Kofi. “We were the help.”

“She wasn’t in rehab or anything?” said Duke.

Enid laughed quietly.

“Rehab does not work for broken souls.”

“Bullshit,” said Duke, who seemed uncharacteristically angry. “She wasn’t getting help from anywhere else? Nothing at all?”

“Where are you going with this, Aaron?” said Savage.

“I have no idea,” he replied, rubbing his face. “I can’t even think straight.”

“It’s been a long day,” said Savage, as much to Enid as to Duke. “We were supposed to get married today.”

Enid smiled, nodding like she already knew.

“I have seen your wedding day, child,” she said. “It is a thing of glory.”

She cocked her head, as if she was remembering something.

“Marla did mention that she was looking for help elsewhere. Friends.”

Kofi spat out a bitter laugh.

“Those batties? All junkies, bruv, all using.”

“I do not think so,” said Enid.

“Hang on, she was part of a group?” said Savage. “Like Narcotics Anonymous, something like that?”

“I do not know who they were, I only know they did not help. She went twice, three times, and this was months ago.”

“You know where it was based?” she asked. “The name? Who ran it?”

“I do not,” said Enid.

A siren came to life, pealing into the night. Savage looked around instinctively, watching an IRV gun towards the exit, its blue lights blazing. When she turned back, Enid and Kofi were walking away.

“Embrace your darkness, Kate Savage,” the old woman called out. “You will need it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Robbie Kett,” said the voice on the phone, thick with an Aberdonian accent. “Hoos your coos?”

“My coos?” said Kett, rubbing his face with his free hand. “I have no idea what you mean, Harrison.”

“Coos,” said Baird.

“Like pigeons?”

“Dinnae worry,” said Baird. “I’ll assume your coos are just braw. Unlike everything else. We saw the briefing. You’ve got another serial killer up there in the Badlands?”

“Looks like it,” said Kett.

It still felt weird, talking to Baird, after everything that had happened down in Southwold. He could feel the heat of the fire, the cold wind that had cut over the cliff edge. Sometimes, at night, his ears still rang from the gunshots.

“Another reason I’m nae in a hurry to cross the border,” said Baird. “But we’re happy to help, aye, Connie?”

“We are,” came another voice, DC Constance Connell. It sounded like she was eating something. “Just tell us what you need, sir.”

“I’ll tell you what I need,” said Baird. “A wet wipe. Connie, you’ve just dripped your ice cream all over my troosers.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It’ll come right out, just give it a⁠—”

There was a wet plop, then a scuffle, and a flurry of panicked shouts.

“Connie!” yelled Baird.

“Harrison?” said Kett.

“Honest to God,” said Baird. “How do you manage to dump an entire three scoop pudding into somebody’s lap? It’s freezing!”

Despite everything, Kett laughed. He’d met Connell, too, a total klutz most of the time.

But neither of them would be alive without her.

“We’re just chasing leads,” said Kett. “This guy seems to be targeting people who’ve escaped death. Like he’s restoring things to their natural order.”

“Mad as a box of frogs,” said Baird. “Hurry up, Connie, it’s leaking through!”

“We’re going through records from Norfolk, but he could be pulling in people from other counties. Any chance you could take a look from your side of the line?”

“Nut,” said Baird. “I’m up to my eyeballs, but this has Connell written all over it.”

“What does?” said Connell, her voice rising as she walked back over.

“I’ll tell you in a second,” said Baird. “Connie, why have you got a spoon?”

“For the ice cream, sir,” she said.

“The ice cream that you spilled in my lap?” said Baird, horrified. “I thought you were getting a napkin.”

“Waste not want not,” she said.

“Connie, no!” Baird exclaimed. “Bad Connie! Look, I’ll give you a buzz if we find anything, alright?”

“Thanks,” said Kett.

“You had any blowback from you know what yet?” Baird asked, his voice quieter.

“Not yet,” said Kett. “Looks like we’re in the clear.”

It was a miracle that nobody had found out what had happened that night. The stress of waiting for the hammer to fall, for that call from the Brass, had almost been more stressful than the guns and the gangsters.

Even the grenades.

“I’ve got to go,” said Baird. “Connie, for God’s sake, would you stop eating ice cream off ma crotch!”

The call died.

Kett laughed again as he lowered his phone to the desk, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fireworks exploded against the dark, the exhaustion overwhelming. When he opened them again, he saw Savage walking towards him from the main door of the bullpen. She had a sheet of paper in her hand.

“You will never guess who I just saw outside,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Enid Heathen, and the kid from the tower block.”

“What?” said Kett. “Here?”

She set the paper down on his desk. There was a screenshot from a Facebook page, a girl in her teens with jet black hair and a lot of eye shadow. She was wearing a school uniform from one of the Ormiston Academies, with black fishnets on her arms and holes in her tights. The goth look was slightly undermined by the beaming grin on her face.

“Marla Fisher,” said Savage. “About a year after this was taken, she fell in with the wrong crowd, got hooked on heroin. Overdosed, then stayed with Enid and her lot for a bit.”

“Shit,” said Kett.

“Three weeks ago, she climbed onto the back of a black bike with a black-clothed rider and vanished. Nobody’s seen her since.”

“Christ,” said Kett. “She’s just a kid.”

“Seventeen,” said Savage. “One of her friends caught a partial plate, said she thought it said DAN. One of the stolen Ducatis was DYN, an easy mistake on a dark night.”

“That’s good work, Kate,” said Kett. “You spoken to the owner?”

“Can’t get through on the phone. He’s up in Cromer.”

“Keep trying,” he said. “Send some locals to talk to him. We might get lucky.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

She gave him a tired smile, and he thought about sending her home, Duke too. It had been a bad enough day for them both without it becoming a worse night. Then he looked at the photograph of Marla again and held his tongue. They needed all the help they could get on this case.

They especially needed Savage.

“Enid said Marla was getting help,” Savage went on. “She mentioned some friends. Maybe junkies, they weren’t sure. But it got me thinking, about something Lina’s wife said. About how Lina felt guilty for living.”

“Yeah,” said Kett.

“It’s a thing,” Savage went on. “Survivor’s guilt. You often find it in people who’ve survived a car accident, or a mass casualty event. Plane crashes, that kind of thing. But it can be cancer survivors, too. Any illness, really. Anything where people have died.”

“Billie had it, I think,” said Kett. “Never put a name to it, but after the whole Pig Man thing, she seemed angry. Not at him, at herself, for somehow getting through it. He killed a lot of women, some of them in front of her.”

He thought back to those dark days after he’d found her. In some ways, they’d almost been worse than when she’d been missing, because he’d seen the damage that Schofield had done to her, the parts of his wife that had been carved out and would never be whole again. The woman who had come back had been Billie, but she’d been a different version of her.

“What does that have to do with our killer, though?” he asked.

“Maybe nothing,” said Savage. “But we’ve got all these people who’ve survived death, right? Kathryn, Lina, Patrick Dodson, and now Marla too. We’re looking for something that connects them, a doctor who worked on them, a nurse, whatever. But what if they have something else in common?”

“Kathryn’s housemate told me she was getting support,” said Kett, feeling the tug of a thread at the back of his thoughts. “Marla too. You’re thinking…”

He left it hanging, in case he’d got the wrong end of the stick, but Savage lifted the words right out of his head.

“A support group,” she said. “For survivors, for people trying to come to terms with what’s happened to them. We saw it before, didn’t we? Right back at the beginning, on the Paper Girls case. Figg’s support group is what brought the killers together. Maybe this time it’s what links the victims.”

“That’s smart, Kate,” said Kett. “I’m so glad I didn’t send you home.”

Savage had managed a smile, but it fell right off her face.

“You were going to send me home, sir?” she said.

“Yeah, you and Aaron, so you could at least enjoy a bit of the day.”

“Is that still an option?” she said, hopefully.

He didn’t get a chance to say no, because a furious howl tore its way from the Superintendent’s office, muffled by the door, but still loud enough to plunge the busy bullpen into absolute silence.

“Uh oh,” said Savage.

Everyone waited for the inevitable, and they didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and Clare stormed out, looking like a haunted marionette as he flapped and kicked his way into the room.

“Can any of you rancid bellends tell me why I’ve just had a call from The Sun asking me to comment on the photographs they’re about to print?”

Nobody dared answer.

“The ones of Kathryn Sutton?” he shrieked. “Lying on the road, ripped to shreds? The close-ups of her wounds? The close-ups of all of you, standing around like a bunch of loose sphincters in an arse hospital waiting room?”

“Arse hospital?” said Kett.

“Have a look, why don’t you?” Clare said, flashing his yellow teeth. “I’ve emailed them to you. Take your time, enjoy the experience. I can wait.”

Kett blew out a slow breath, opening his email. Sure enough, a Round Robin from Clare sat right at the top of the list. The subject was ‘STICK THESE UP YOUR TOSSHOLES YOU BUNCH OF USELESS BADGER CUN⁠—’.

There, thankfully, he’d run out of space.

Kett scrolled down the email, which had been forwarded from a reporter at the newspaper. Sure enough, there was Kathryn, lying in a pool of blood by the church, naked apart from her underwear. The wounds in her limbs somehow looked worse in the photo than they had done in real life. She’d fallen unconscious by this point, a pair of arms wrapped around her that almost certainly belonged to PC Niven.

The next photo was the same, only zoomed out a little. Kett saw himself there, Porter too, both in their tuxedos. Kathryn looked dead, so much blood beneath her that he wasn’t entirely sure how she’d survived.

There were nine photos in total, eight showing the scene outside the church as they’d tried to help the young woman, right up until the ambulance had arrived.

The last photo was somehow worse than the others, but only because it was a close-up of Clare’s trousers. It looked like he’d tried to smuggle a pair of actual budgies.

“Why are you looking at that, you pervert?” came a whisper in Kett’s ear, and he almost fell off his chair. Clare was right behind him, so close that he felt the Super’s words tickle his ear.

“I’m not, sir,” he said, scrolling back up. “Who took these? They must have been right there, but I don’t remember seeing anyone with a…”

He glanced at Savage, saw it register on her face too.

“Camera,” she said. “The photographer.”

“What photographer?” said Clare, still leaning far too close. Kett tried to push his chair away, but the Superintendent was leaning on it, pinning him in place.

“For the wedding, sir,” said Savage, wringing her hands. “Some guy we hired, I can’t even remember his name. He was in the group we evacuated out the back road. He must have taken these. I bet he thought he could make a bit of money.”

“Bastard,” said Kett. “I can’t believe they’re even considering printing them.”

“It’s The Sun, what do you expect?” said Clare, finally standing back. “I want his name, Kate. Now.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said, heading back to her desk. “I’ll have to ask Aaron.”

“I don’t have to tell you how bad this makes us look,” said Clare.

“I know, sir,” Kett replied.

He had, almost against his will, scrolled down to the final photo again. He wheeled the page up to the image above, looking at the crowd that had assembled around the injured woman. The photographer had obviously used a telephoto lens, everything in the shot perfectly clear but everything on the periphery smudged into a blur.

Kathryn lay on the ground. The ambulance sat behind her, a hint of green where the paramedic was about to walk into frame. Past the action, a couple of people stood and watched. One was Porter, the hair on his face looking like a fungal disease. Standing behind him was another man, dressed in a black suit. His face was out of focus, but not so much that Kett couldn’t see the grin that split it in two.

“That’s the DJ,” he said, jabbing his monitor hard enough to make it wobble.

“What’s he laughing about?” said Clare.

“Good question,” said Kett. “He was an arsehole from the moment he turned up. Big guy, too.”

He thought back, trying to run through the man’s movements in the church. It didn’t make any sense that he’d have anything to do with the woman who had been dumped there, but there was still the question of why Kathryn had been brought to the church at all. What if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if it had nothing to do with Savage and Duke’s wedding?

What if it was because somebody else was there?

“We’re going to need his details too,” said Kett, drumming his fingertips on the desk.

“It will have to wait,” said Spalding as she crossed the room. She was holding her phone, and when she rested it upright on Kett’s desk he realised she was halfway through a video call. A woman in her fifties took up most of the screen, her eyes bleary, her hair tousled. She looked like she’d just woken up.

“Hello?” she said, squinting.

Everybody leaned in, and she recoiled in fear.

“This is…” started Spalding. Her hand spun in the air like the wheel of death on a computer, her brain freezing. “I’ve forgotten, sorry.”

“Karen Fields,” said the woman, the feed glitching so that her words didn’t line up with the movement of her lips. She had a soft accent, somewhere from the southwest. “Can you hear me okay?”

“Who the toss are you?” said Clare, gurning at her.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… Karen,” she said. “We’ve met before, Colin, don’t you remember? You used me for another case, a year or so back. I thought… I thought I’d made an impression.”

Clare pulled a face.

“I had a hunch,” said Spalding, before it could get any more awkward. “The church where we found the bodies, it was an unclaimed estate.”

“Was it?” said Clare.

“It got me thinking, what if that’s where our killer finds his murder rooms? There are more of these estates than you’d think, places that have never been claimed, that are sitting idle. Hundreds of them, all over the country. But they’re hard to find, because nobody wants to make it easy for scammers or squatters. There are lists online, but…”

Clare’s mouth opened like a boa constrictor’s, a long, low groan coming out of it. Kett watched the man’s tonsils for a moment before realising that it was a yawn. Both Spalding and the woman on the call had identical expressions of annoyance.

“But yeah, not always simple to find,” Spalding went on. “There are a few people who compile these lists, and Mrs Fields is one of them. She works for the Government Legal Department, and she’s offered to help.”

“I’m not actually employed by them,” said Karen, apologetically. “I’m sorry if I misled you. I’m a consultant. I don’t know if I can help or not, but there’s a chance. Quite often, these unclaimed estates end up as illicit bids in auctions. Your church⁠—”

“I can’t hear you,” said Clare, leaning in. “Turn yourself up.”

“What?” said Karen.

“Maybe if you stop breathing so loud, sir,” muttered Kett.

“I said,” Karen went on, speaking slowly, “your church ended up as a listing in an auction several years ago. Turns out the people trying to sell it didn’t actually own the deeds. They were a couple of proper dinlos, chancing it, adverse possession. They listed a whole bunch of properties, dozens of them, none of which they had a legal right to sell.”

“Can you hurry up,” said Clare. “Is there a point to this stuff?”

“I’ll have you know I have a PhD in this stuff,” said Karen, indignantly. “From Trinity College, so if you’d care to let me finish?”

“Ignore him,” said Kett, too tired to worry about the Super’s reaction. “Carry on, Mrs Fields.”

“Miss,” she said. “Not that it’s important. Uh…”

She was struggling to find her way back.

“The men who listed the church at auction are long gone,” said Spalding. “One dead, one in prison for fraud. But the list they compiled is online, anyone can see it. Right, Karen?”

“Right,” she said. “You have to know where to look, but it’s there. We keep an eye on these things, making sure none of the unclaimed estates fall into the wrong hands. Your church was on a specific list that became quite notorious in our circles a few years ago. A number of other properties were on there as well, all of them in the hands of fraudsters. Three were sold before we cottoned on, and a lot of people lost their money.”

“Hang on,” said Kett, struggling to keep up. “A list of unclaimed estates?”

Karen nodded, the signal making her move like a robot.

“Twenty-seven of them in this particular directory,” she said. “All in East Anglia, fourteen in Norfolk. Mostly abandoned, some complete ruins. It’s unlikely they’ll ever be sold, but lists like this keep them off the bona vacantia radar, which means they won’t fall into the government’s pockets until we’re absolutely sure nobody’s entitled to them.”

“I thought you worked for the government?” said Clare.

“I’m a con-sul-tant,” she said, sounding the word out like it might be the first time he’d heard it. “My duty is to ordinary people who might lose out, and then to the public coffers. So, uh…”

She froze, and Kett wondered if the signal had gone. But she’d just lost her train of thought again.

“So, yes,” she said after a moment. “In theory, if your suspect managed to access a directory like this, he’d know of a number of properties that are secluded, empty, and unlikely to ever be visited.”

“And if he used it to find the church in the woods…” said Clare.

“He could have used it to find another murder room,” finished Kett. “We’ve got the list?”

“You do,” said Karen. “I emailed it to somebody.”

“Me,” said Spalding. “It’s printing as we speak.”

“It goes without saying,” said Karen, “the directory is highly confidential, and I wouldn’t want it to⁠—”

Clare jabbed the phone hard enough to knock it over, ending the call. Spalding collected it, giving the Super a look that might have withered him, if he’d seen it.

“This is the best lead we’ve got,” Clare said. “If our killer is holding more victims, there’s a good chance it’s in one of these buildings. I’ll alert tactical. You lot split yourself into groups and get ready to move.”

The Superintendent set off across the room.

“We’re going to find this bastard tonight.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Aaron, can you stop that?”

Duke stared into the mirror in the sun visor of the IRV, angling his head left and right to try to get a better view of his moustache. It seemed to have filled out since that morning, like a fledgeling bird fluffing itself from the nest. It was certainly more confident since the rest of his beard had gone, embracing its newfound independence. He’d even thought of a name for it.

Dave.

Losing his beard had been amongst the very worst things to ever happen to him, and that included the times he’d almost died on the job. It literally couldn’t have come at a worse time, his wedding day. For a while, in Savage’s bathroom, he thought he’d have to get married with the face mask still glued to him. It was only through sheer brute force that he’d managed to scrub the worst of it off, and it had taken his beard with it. He’d been drafting an email to Amazon inside his head all day, threatening legal action for ruining his face.

But the more he looked at his moustache, the more he grew to like it. Maybe this was the start of a brand new him. Suave. Confident. Debonair. Was that a word? It sounded like a word.

“Aaron?”

It was weird seeing his chin, though. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved, but it was certainly a decade or more. He’d forgotten how big it was, and not in the chiselled jawline way he’d hoped it would be. It looked like the underbelly of some kind of plump garden toad. He gave the sagging pouch a poke, then ran his fingers along the line of his moustache again.

“Aaron!”

Something clipped him around the back of the head. Porter was sitting next to him, in the passenger seat, the disgust on his face obvious even in the gloom. The other thing that was obvious on his face was his unkempt stubble, which hadn’t even earned the right to be called a beard yet.

“What did you do that for, sir?” he said, rubbing his head. His scalp was smarting from the force of it.

The night sat heavy on the car, smothering them, every window blind. Midnight had passed a while ago, his wedding day now officially a thing of the past. He wasn’t sure if the thought of the day being over filled him with sadness, or relief, or a bit of both.

“Because I don’t want to sit next to you while you’re rubbing your hairy whatsit,” said Porter. “Didn’t your mum tell you you’d go blind if you kept playing with it?”

“My mum loves watching me play with it,” he said, and Porter’s grimace twisted even further.

Duke looked past him, trying to see anything on the street outside. They were in the arse-end of the Norfolk countryside here, somewhere north of Dereham. The Superintendent had split them into groups to investigate the properties on the list that Spalding had printed out. He’d asked to go with Savage, of course, but Clare’s answer had been very loud and very clear.

“I won’t have you canoodling when you’re supposed to be working!”

Duke had no idea why he and Savage would be in a canoe in the middle of the night, but he’d been too frightened to ask. So here he was, stuck in a car with Peter Porter, waiting for tactical to find them.

“Why are you staring at me, mate?” said Porter.

“I’m not,” said Duke. “I’m trying to look out the window. You’re in the way.”

“Pretty sure you’re staring at me. Either you are, or your lip fuzz is.”

The rear window of the IRV lit up as a car approached. Duke craned back, but he couldn’t see a thing past the glare. Porter was already getting out, a blast of cool air entering through the open door.

“Where the hell have you been?” the DI said.

Duke checked his phone, hoping to see a message from Savage and finding an empty screen. He quickly fired a text to her.

Happy honeymoon, babe :’(

Then he climbed out of the car to see an ARV behind them. Two members of the firearms team stood beside it, both armed to the teeth. He would have felt happier with a full squad, but Proctor’s unit had been split between them so that they could cover more ground.

That wouldn’t be a problem, of course. It would only take one bullet to put down the killer.

If he was even here, of course.

“Couldn’t find the place,” said one of the tactical team, a woman called Eliana Ali who’d arrived in Norwich a few months after Duke had. She’d asked him out once, but she’d done it so subtly that he’d only realised when somebody else had pointed it out weeks later. She glanced suspiciously at them, speaking to the man beside her. “I thought we were meeting Porter and Duke, not Freddie Mercury and Shaggy.”

“Shaggy?” said Porter, putting a hand to his face.

“Sorry about the wedding, Aaron,” she said with a shrug. “Shitty luck, but maybe it’s not meant to be, eh?”

“It’s meant to be,” he told her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Porter pointed to a corner ahead, although whatever he was gesturing towards was lost behind a wall of night-drenched bushes.

“Some kind of chapel,” he said. “It’s on the list. Either of you see the murder room this morning?”

Ali nodded, her face paling. The other guy didn’t reply. Duke didn’t recognise him, but he knew they’d drafted in a few coppers from other forces.

“Well, this might be grim,” Porter went on. “So brace yourselves. And I don’t have to tell you, this guy’s a proper psycho, so if he’s coming at you, put him down.”

The two firearms officers nodded, patting their rifles reflexively. Porter gave Duke a nod, then turned around and led the way up the street, his shoes crunching on shards of gravel. The chapel was ready for them the second they turned the corner, a proud brick building with a pointed roof and three arched windows, all of which had been boarded up. Two slim turrets rose on either side, looking like a pair of middle fingers lifted in defiance. It was surrounded by a veritable moat of rubbish, countless black binbags that had been torn open by God only knew what.

“Absolute shithole,” said Porter.

The DI reached the tall front door, turning the handle and giving it a good shove. It seemed to take him by surprise when it opened, and he almost lost his footing. Only his grip on the door stopped him from falling.

“Shit,” he said.

He pushed the door fully open and stood to the side, gesturing.

“I’m not going first,” said Duke.

“I know,” he snapped. “I was waiting for the guys with guns.”

Ali stepped through, her rifle up. She waited for the other AFO to join her, then they both started bellowing.

“Armed police!”

Duke felt a surge of adrenaline, the way he always did when he watched the firearms team in action. That would be him one day if everything went to plan, equipped with an MP5 and a sidearm, dressed in armoured gear like a medieval knight. For now, though, the Taser would have to do, and he pulled it out as he followed Porter into the building.

“Armed police!” he called out.

Porter looked at him, unimpressed.

“Don’t think that counts, mate.”

“It counts,” he said.

“Nah. Barely even a weapon.”

“It’ll count if I shoot you in the arse with it,” said Duke.

“You’d only miss.”

“Hard to miss an arse that size,” said Duke, and Porter spun around, his torch blindingly bright.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“I said it’s hard to miss an arse⁠—”

“Can you two stop bickering and get in here,” Ali yelled from the other side of a double door.

They walked on, Duke trying to blink the afterglow from his retinas as he entered the main body of the chapel. It was hard to tell, in the shifting light from the torches, but it looked like somebody had tried to convert the building into a house at some point. One corner had been partially fitted out as a kitchen, everything in place except for the worktops and the cupboard doors. A large table sat by the boarded windows, and it was here that Ali was shining her torch. Two large paper bags with the McDonald’s logo sat next to a bottle of bleach, a dustpan, a stack of plates.

And an axe.

“Shit,” said Porter. “That’s not good.”

The firearms officers were moving towards the back of the cavernous space, their shouts echoing. They were being so loud that Duke almost didn’t hear it: a crunch, from right overhead. Dirt rained from the wooden rafters.

“Sir,” he said.

“What?” demanded Porter.

Duke pointed up just as another thud came from the ceiling, something big falling over, or jumping, followed by a flurry of rapid footsteps.

“Upstairs!” Porter yelled, rubbing dust from his eyes. “He’s upstairs!”

And as if to confirm it, another noise tore down from above: a howl of lunatic laughter that echoed into the night.

It was like walking into another world.

Or stepping back in time.

Kett staggered along the grassy path, his feet sinking into the wet earth. Beside him, the river gurgled in its sleep, tucked into a blanket of bulrushes. There was no moon, and barely any stars, and his torch was so feeble that when the old mill finally peeled itself from the night, it was almost close enough to touch.

He couldn’t believe it had only been four years since he’d last stood here, since he’d almost died here. It had been a night just like this one when he’d stumbled across the mill with Savage, chasing a stolen baby and instead finding stolen women. The mill had been just downriver from the Whytetail commune where his mum had lived for a while; home to a cult, and to a group of human traffickers as well. There had been a wedding on that case, too; not a real one, of course, but the coincidence had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up more than once tonight.

A more powerful torch swept up from behind him, plastering his shadow over the face of the mill.

“This it?” said a voice.

Kett squinted against the light to see the two firearms officers struggling over the boggy ground. One was Sergeant Ed Proctor, the man who had taken over from Gorski after the nightmare of the Cold Iron Kills case. The other was Craig Robinson, his right-hand man.

Neither of them looked particularly happy to be here.

“What on Earth is it?” asked Proctor, glaring at the crumbling ruin.

“Used to be a mill,” said Kett, walking onto the wooden veranda. It creaked beneath him like a sinking boat, the entire building trembling. There was still a scrap of police tape stapled to the door, one end pulled loose and hanging dead. “I thought it was part of the Whytetail community, but it turns out they’d just commandeered it. It’s an unclaimed estate, abandoned. Perfect for our guy.”

He hadn’t quite believed it when he’d seen it on the list.

Kett tried the handle and the door cracked out of its frame, jarring to a halt after a couple of inches. He pushed his shoulder against it, chunks of rotting wood tearing loose as he forced it open. The stench of the place rolled over him, as welcome as a punch to the gut. He doubled up, groaning quietly, then he forced himself to suck in a breath.

“Police,” he called out, without much enthusiasm. “If anyone’s here, make yourself known.”

He was answered by a soft clap, one that drained every scrap of warmth from his body. Something shifted in the dark, skirting away from his torch when he lifted it. Then he heard it again, what sounded like a round of applause from whoever stood there.

“Hello?” he said, just a croak.

The applause grew, something rushing from the dark: two pigeons clapping past him in a mad panic, exploding into the night.

“Christ,” he said, feeling his heartbeat in his tonsils.

He put his hand to his heart, standing back to let the tactical team through.

“Sensible move,” said Proctor, a glimmer of a smile on his face. “Those feathery bastards can be dangerous.”

They charged past him with a round of shouts that made his ears ring. He followed them in, seeing the same wreck of a building that he’d found the last time he was here, the wooden walls full of holes, the floor chewed into pieces by the damp air. The smell was bad, but it was the stench of age and decay, not death.

“Mind your feet,” he said, although the two men were still yelling with such gusto he didn’t think they’d heard him. They vanished down a corridor, their torchlight reaching back through the gaps in the walls.

“Got something in here,” Proctor called.

Kett walked deeper into the mill, the soft wood and the carpet of debris threatening to turn his ankles. He found the two AFOs in the main section of the building, the open space empty of everything other than two large livestock trailers, mounted on wheels. He was surprised to discover they were still here.

“You think these are his?” said Proctor, his gun aimed at the empty cages like they contained invisible monsters.

“No,” said Kett, remembering the women they’d found here all those years ago, imprisoned, abused, impregnated against their will.

Horror story after horror story after horror story, he thought, and it only seemed to be getting worse.

“These don’t belong to him,” he said, his voice swallowed by the hiss of the river outside. “But it doesn’t mean he isn’t using the place. Try the stairs, over there.”

Proctor nodded, his torch peeling open the dark as he moved across the room. There was an ancient staircase there, and it didn’t look like it was in any state to hold them. The tactical officer put his foot on the bottom step and it went straight through in a puff of dry rot.

“Be careful,” Kett told him. “Last time I was up there, I got jumped.”

That was an understatement. Last time, somebody had grabbed him and thrown him out of the window. He’d almost drowned in the hungry water, in the grasping reeds.

Proctor tested the next step, his rifle aimed upwards into the darkness of the first floor.

“Armed police!” he roared. “If anyone’s there, let me know, or I swear to God…”

He didn’t finish, listening for a moment before easing himself up the stairs. Robinson waited for him to get to the top before following.

Kett turned to the room, aiming his feeble torch into the corners and seeing furry shapes scuttling for the exit, their squeaks like somebody dragging their nails down a blackboard. The shudder ripped through him so hard that his feet almost left the ground.

“Nope,” he said. “I quit.”

And it struck him: how simple it would be to say those words for real. He tried them out, rolling them around his dry mouth, tasting them on his chapped lips.

“I quit. I quit. I quit.”

So easy, he thought.

“Sir?” came a muffled cry from overhead.

But so hard, too, because the job would always need him.

The horrors would always be there.

Proctor dropped halfway down again, the steps groaning in protest. His torch lit up his own face like he was telling campfire tales.

“There’s something up here,” he said. “I think it’s a body.”

Kett swore beneath his breath, heading for the stairs. He felt his heart rate pick up as he went, not the fear of what he might find, but the memory of what had happened last time. He could still feel the impact of his attacker thumping into him, the powerlessness of being lifted off the floor, the pain when he’d been driven into the boarded window.

Then the shock of the cold, the river filling his lungs, the realisation that he was going to die.

But you didn’t die, he told himself as he climbed, the old wood screaming beneath his boots. You didn’t die then, and you’re not going to die now.

But if this case had taught him anything, it was that you could only outrun your fate so many times until it found you.

Until death found you.

He reached the first floor, seeing the same landing, the same doors. Proctor was standing inside the room where Kett had been attacked, his light aimed behind him, his angled face a silhouette.

“It’s in here,” he said. “Looks like⁠—”

Something cracked inside the room, as loud as a gunshot. Proctor lurched forward with a grunt, as if something had thrown itself into him. He hit the door from the other side, slamming it shut.

The corridor plunged into darkness. Kett ran to the door, twisting the handle. It wouldn’t open.

“Ed?” he yelled, driving his shoulder into it.

Proctor was in the way. Either that, or somebody was standing there, holding it closed.

“Oi!” he yelled. “Open the door!”

Kett could hear more cracks from inside, the sound of somebody being hit. He shouldered the old wood again, but it was the only thing in this bastard place that wasn’t rotted into oblivion.

“What’s going on?” yelled Robinson, running over from another room. “Ed?”

“He’s in there!” yelled Kett. “Somebody attacked him.”

“Move!” yelled Robinson, and Kett did as he was told, staggering back.

The AFO swung his rifle over his shoulder then drove his boot into the door, right beneath the handle. It opened an inch or so, then immediately snapped shut again.

“Fuck!” said Robinson. “Hang on.”

He thumbed his radio, screaming into it.

“Man down! Man down! We’re under attack!”

“Why, in the name of Godfrey’s sweaty jigglestick, are we even here?” asked Clare from behind the wheel of his gargantuan Mercedes.

Savage had been asking the same question ever since she’d climbed into the passenger seat thirty minutes ago. She’d ridden with the Super enough times in her life to know that his car had never been clean, but now it was downright offensive. About twenty balled-up socks rolled around in the footwell, moving like living things every time he turned a corner. She had to keep lifting her feet as they swarmed past them, like an elephant who’s seen a mouse. There were so many air fresheners strung to the rear-view mirror that she didn’t know how he could even see out of the windscreen. They were blasting out a stench like a public toilet.

Worse still, the back seats had been lowered to make room for a mattress that couldn’t be described as anything other than piss yellow. It looked like somebody had died on it, and in the entire journey from HQ out to the sticks, she hadn’t been able to get a straight answer from the Super for why it was there.

They were driving painfully slowly down a country lane, roughly halfway between Belton and Bradwell. The Mercedes’ headlights had just picked out the roof of an immense black barn past the tangled hedgerows, and Clare turned off the road, rocking up a potholed track towards it. The smell in the car seemed to double with every bounce, Savage’s eyes watering.

“I mean, it’s not even a church,” Clare went on, wrestling with the wheel. “So what would he be doing here? Nothing, that’s what. A big fat nothing, like Porter.”

“You can’t say that, sir,” said Savage.

“I can say anything I like, Kate,” he replied.

The car squealed as he braked, and Savage opened the door before it had even come to a stop. She practically fell out, opening her lungs and taking a couple of deep breaths of the gloriously fresh night. When she looked down, she realised that one of the Super’s socks had stuck to her shoe, and she kicked it away with a strangled scream. It landed on the bonnet of the ARV which had rumbled up the track behind them, and past the glare of the lights, Savage could see the two firearms officers frowning at it.

“The hell is that?” one asked as he got out. Savage knew his surname was Healey, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his first name. The other guy was John Paxton.

“Are you blind?” said Clare. “It’s my tossing sock!”

“What?” said Healey, horrified.

“That doesn’t mean what he thinks it means,” said Savage. “I hope.”

She turned her attention to the barn. It really was enormous, sitting in the dark like a leviathan in the ocean. The thatched roof had mostly collapsed, the rafters jutting upwards like spikes. The front door looked like it had been removed completely, leaving a rectangle of darkness that looked far too much like a hole in a graveyard, ready to be filled with the dead.

“This is one of the buildings on a list of abandoned properties that we believe our killer has access to,” the Super told the AFOs, scratching his nose. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s right at the bottom of that list, because it’s not a church, and it’s far too close to its neighbours. But here we are anyway, miles away from my soft bed and my warm wife. Due diligence and all that.”

“Isn’t your bed in the back of the car, sir?” said Savage.

He ignored her, waving his arms at the barn like a break-dancing exorcist trying to ward off an angry spirit.

“Go have a look,” he said. “But be careful, because this guy’s a monster.”

“Are you not coming?” said Savage.

“Go into that festering cesspit?” he replied, aghast. “No chance.”

Clare opened the car door and sunk into his seat, still waving his arms at them. Through the windscreen, he looked like one of those nodding dogs, only one filled with incandescent rage. The man was about three tosses away from a heart attack, Savage thought as she walked up to the door.

The two AFOs took a second to switch on their torches and ready their weapons before walking inside, Healey leading. Savage listened to their shouts for a second before chasing them in, finding an interior that looked far too new to belong here. The corridor was damp from exposure to the elements, but the plaster was intact and the flagstone floor in good repair.

“Clear,” yelled Paxton as he walked out of the door on the right.

Savage peeked in, sweeping her torch to find a large, empty room with a cage of dark beams across the ceiling. The small windows were broken, rotting curtains hanging from the pole. There was nothing else to see, so she followed the sound of shouts down the corridor into a room that was a little bigger, but just as empty. A couple of carrier bags skittered across the floor in the breeze from the open door, but that was the only sign of life. Even the cobwebs, and there were a lot of them, looked abandoned.

“Clear,” came Healey’s voice from a door in the far wall. “Heading up.”

She heard a thunder of feet as the men took the stairs, the ceiling creaking. A few more calls sounded out before the officers made their way back down.

“Nobody up there,” said Healey, adjusting his cap. “But we’ve got a locked door through there, gonna need the ram.”

Paxton was already halfway across the room, his equipment rattling. Savage made her way through the building, finding the door. She turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Funnily enough, we tried that,” said Healey.

She turned it again, just to annoy him, then stood back. The way the door was positioned at the back of the large room meant that it either led into a small cupboard, or a set of stairs.

A basement, she thought, suddenly cold.

“Where are you?” Clare shouted from the front of the barn.

“Back here, sir,” she called back.

A moment later, the Superintendent lumbered through, the enforcement ram in his hands. He was struggling with the weight of it, his face streaked with sweat. Behind him, Paxton shrugged his shoulders.

“He wanted to do it himself,” he said.

“Well somebody has to do something useful,” said Clare, flecks of spit looking like fire in the light of the torches. “I’ll show you who’s king toss around here.”

He swung the ram back, then drove it towards the door, missing by a good foot. It thumped into the wall, leaving a hole there.

“You want me to take that, sir?” asked Healey as Clare wrenched it out.

The Superintendent ignored him, swinging again, this time hitting the lock hard enough to send the door crashing inwards. He almost went with it, Healey grabbing the back of his jacket and holding on like he was a dog straining at its lead. Eventually, the Super found his balance and stepped back, hurling the ram to the ground with a monstrous clang.

“Now that is how you do it,” he panted.

As predicted, the door led to a staircase that dropped into an inky darkness. It didn’t seem to deter the AFOs, who filed down with their rifles out. The echo of their calls reverberated back up, hollow and ghost-like.

Savage looked at Clare, who really did look like he was on the verge of a cardiac episode. He leaned against the wall, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Are you going to fondle me with your eyeballs all night, Kate, or are you going to do your job?” he said after a moment.

She left him to it, using her torch to illuminate the stairs as she walked down them. The temperature seemed to drop by a couple of degrees with every step, and by the time she reached the bottom, her teeth were chattering.

It was immediately apparent, though, that the basement was empty. The tactical officers were already at the far end of the long, thin room, their weapons stowed. Savage ran her torch along the dirt walls, finding a couple of bookcases and a dresser that held nothing but dust. A handful of dining chairs lay on their backs like dead cockroaches, two wooden crates with their guts spilled; linen tablecloths, by the look of it, black with age. A serpentine coil of black rope slept in the corner.

“Clear,” said Healey, a little unnecessarily.

“What did I tell you?” said Clare as he made his way down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and sat down, putting his head in both hands like a sullen child on the naughty step. “Bloody useless.”

Savage didn’t know what to say, but there was no time to reply anyway. There was a chirp from across the room, the tactical team’s radios coming to life. The shout that blasted out was far too loud for such a small space.

“Man down! Man down! We’re under attack.”

A gasping breath, and a scream.

“It’s him!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Robinson hurled himself at the door a third time, hard enough to splinter the wood. It snapped shut again, somebody pushing against the other side with all their strength. Proctor was screaming, his cries muffled by the walls as he was beaten, those same cracks and crunches making it sound like the building was coming down.

“Ed!” yelled Kett. “For fuck’s sake, get it open!”

Robinson was trying, driving his boot into the wood. He was still on his radio.

“It’s him! We need backup!”

It wouldn’t be here for a while. The tactical unit was spread too thin. Kett ran to the next door along the corridor, entering another pitch-black space. The floor joists were in such bad repair that he almost went straight through them, his foot plunging into thin air. He wrenched out his boot, splinters gouging his ankle.

Even with his torch, it was so dark that it took him a second to get his bearings. He ran to the wall that separated this room from the one where Proctor was under attack, finding a loose panel in the wall and pulling. The old wood didn’t stand a chance, practically dissolving in his hands. He squinted through the gap, seeing Proctor on the floor by the door, thrashing in a mad panic. The man’s torch swept back and forth, blindingly bright. Kett couldn’t see what was happening to him.

“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing more slats and ripping them free. “Get away from him!”

Proctor’s screams were weakening by the second.

“Robinson!” he yelled. “In here!”

The AFO pounded through the door, almost vanishing into the same hole that Kett had. He didn’t even stop at the wall, he ploughed right through the ruin of it, tripping into the other room in a cloud of dust. The mill shook with the force of his steps, debris hailing from the crumbling roof.

“Wait!” came a cry.

Robinson kept running, his torch peeling open the dark, revealing Proctor on the floor.

Or in the floor, up to his armpits.

Too late, Kett realised what had happened: Proctor had dropped through a hole in the boards, his top half blocking the door.

“Shit,” he said. “Robinson, wait⁠—”

The floor of the room gave way completely beneath the weight of the two men. With matching howls, they both fell into the void.

“Fuck!” said Kett. “Fuck! Fuck!”

He couldn’t see anything through the hole they’d made, and he didn’t dare get any closer. He ran, the stairs disintegrating as he made his way down them. He pulled out his phone only to drop it as he hit the broken bottom step, landing on all fours. He pushed himself up, finding the phone, turning on the torch to try to work out where the tactical team had fallen.

There was no sign of them.

He could hear them, though, and he followed the sound of groaning, heading in the direction of the river. There was only one door on this side of the mill, and he found both men lying in a square of boggy ground, caked in filth and full of fury. The outside wall of the mill was missing here, and the river had moved in; a pool of brackish water, choked with rushes. The night loomed through the gap, threatening.

“You alright?” he said, aiming his torch at the two men.

“Fuck do you think?” said Proctor, sitting up. He was gripping his thigh with both hands, but it was too dark to see why. “Fucking floor went from under me.”

“Why didn’t you say?” said Kett. “Thought you were under attack.”

“I was trying to tell you!” the man replied. “But you morons kept opening the door in my face. Near enough took my head off.”

“Oh,” said Kett. “Right. Sorry.”

He offered a hand to Robinson, who was the closest. The younger man took it, and Kett hauled him out of the mulch. He stood there like some kind of yeti, covered in mud from top to toe. The smell coming off him was unbelievable. His radio bleeped.

“Back up en route,” said the operator. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

Robinson thumbed the radio.

“Cancel that,” he said. “False alarm.”

The radio hissed.

“Cancel that,” he said again. “We’re okay.”

There was no reply, other than static.

“I thought you found a body,” said Kett.

“Wasn’t a body,” said Proctor. “Was a pile of bedding that something furry had crawled in and died. Little help? I’m sinking in this shit.”

Robinson waded back into the quagmire, and Kett went with him. It was like tar, his boots sinking into the sticky mess, then his shins, no sign of the bottom. By the time he’d reached Proctor, he felt like he was wearing lead weights on his feet. He grabbed the man under one arm, and Robinson took the other. Proctor grunted as they heaved him out of the mud. Up close, and with Robinson’s light on him, Kett could see the gaping tear in his trousers.

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” he said once they’d reached solid ground. He’d lost a boot, he realised, and his sock too, his bare foot black with grime.

“Forget it,” grunted Proctor, taking a wheezing breath. “It’ll take forever, and it’s just a scratch.”

“Yeah, a scratch full of God knows what,” said Kett. “You need to get it checked.”

“I’ll drive him,” said Robinson. “Just help me get him to the car, we can patch him up there.”

They hobbled to the door, squeezing through into the main body of the building.

“We done here?” Robinson asked as they walked into the night.

Kett glanced at the mill, the old dog of a building watching them go. When the case was done, he thought, when they’d caught their killer, he was going to come back here and burn the place to the ground.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re done. It’s a dead end.”

He set off again, stones cutting into the bottom of his bare foot.

“Let’s hope everyone else is having more luck.”

Porter galloped up the stairs of the chapel, his view blocked by Duke’s arse. The two tactical officers were ahead of them, running towards whatever had been making the noise up there.

“Move, Aaron!” Porter roared.

He reached the landing, seeing Ali and the other AFO ahead of them. They’d split up, both yelling as they stormed the bedrooms. It was enormous up here, a long hallway that bisected the building, three doors on either side. The only lights were the torches, and they swept back and forth so fast that they were almost strobing, making everything feel like it was moving in slow motion.

“Clear!” yelled Ali, emerging from a room with her rifle braced against her shoulder. “Hollister?”

“Clear,” said the other officer as he appeared from the room opposite. “Moving up.”

They took a door each, and in the gap they left between them, Porter saw somebody lurch out of the room at the far end of the corridor; a hunched, hooded figure who started running their way.

He opened his mouth to shout a warning and somehow choked on his own spit, hacking up violent coughs. Luckily, Duke had seen him too. The PC lifted his torch, revealing a man dressed in black, his face lost beneath the hood of his jumper and an enormous beard. He was in full sprint, demolishing the distance between them.

“Contact!” roared Duke. “Watch out, sir!”

“I bloody saw him first,” croaked Porter, but his words were lost as Duke barrelled past him, shoving him into the wall as he went.

“The fuck, Aaron?” he said.

Duke looked like he was going to tackle the guy head on, but at the last second the bearded man jerked to the left, grabbing the frame of the door and spinning into the room that tactical had just cleared. He managed to slam the door shut just as Duke reached it.

“Out of the way, Duke!” said Ali, running back into the corridor. “Where is he?”

“In there,” said Duke, wrestling with the handle. “Hang on.”

He took a step back, ready to break through.

“Armed police!” he yelled.

“You’re not—” started Porter.

Something came flying out of the door at the far end of the corridor, a smoking projectile that bounced off the wall and then hit the floor. It was hissing, a shrill whistle that grew louder, and louder.

“Bomb!” yelled Hollister, hurling himself back into the room he’d just left.

Nobody else reacted in time, the explosive detonating with a concussive blast that pulverised Porter’s ears. He dropped onto his haunches, clamping his hands to the side of his head, seeing spears of fire cut down the hallway. One hit Ali in the chest and she fell back. Another whistled over Duke’s head before exploding again in a wave of green light. More followed, reds and blues and yellows exploding along the length of the corridor. The sound of them was deafening.

Fireworks, Porter realised.

Ali must have understood too, because she was already on her way up the corridor, staring down the barrel of her rifle at the open door. It was hard to see anything through the smoke.

“Armed police,” she yelled. “On the floor!”

Another firework came flying out, clattering off the wall and landing by Ali’s feet. She stamped on the fuse before it could go off and lunged into the room.

“On the fucking floor!”

“Shit,” said Porter, sliding up the wall.

There were shots firing inside the room at the end of the corridor, but he didn’t know if they were bullets or more fireworks. Duke was trying to batter his way through the door to get to the bearded man, but it must have been solid. Hollister reappeared, gripping his rifle. He looked back and forth for a second before hearing the crackle of explosions, then he legged it towards Ali.

“Together,” said Porter, just as Duke was about to ram the door with his shoulder again.

They braced themselves against the wall, nodded, then charged. Duke ploughed into the door like he was rugby tackling it, while Porter gave it a solid kick next to the handle.

It crunched open, Duke falling through, his arms wheeling. The man who’d run at them was staggering back to get out of the falling PC’s path, one hand to his bearded face where the door had battered him. He reached into the pocket of his filthy trousers, pulling out a slim, black pistol.

“Gun!” yelled Porter.

Duke had only just recovered, still teetering. The man aimed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger.

“No!” yelled Porter.

Porter hurled himself at the guy, wrapping his arms around his torso and throwing him into the wall. The man grunted, the gun falling from his hand.

“Aaron?” Porter yelled, trying to look back. He hadn’t heard it go off, but his pulse was like thunder and his ears were wrecked from the fireworks.

The bearded man was struggling, although he didn’t seem to have a lot of strength. Porter twisted his body, angling his hip and spinning the guy to the ground like he was filled with straw. The man cracked his head as he landed, howling like a dog. He curled into a ball, his hands over his face. Porter pinned him with a knee.

“Stay the fuck down,” he said, trying to fumble the cuffs from his pocket. “Aaron, talk to me.”

He yanked one of the man’s arms back, snapping on the cuffs. Then he rolled him onto his belly to secure the other one. Even then, he didn’t get up, sitting on the man’s back to try and recover his breath. He glanced up, seeing Duke standing in the middle of the room. The PC had picked up the gun. In his hands, it looked tiny.

“You alright?” wheezed Porter.

“Yeah,” said Duke. He aimed the gun at the wall and squeezed the trigger. The barrel lit up, playing a tinny tune that sounded like it was from a Western. “It’s a toy.”

“The fuck?” said Porter.

Somebody in the other room screamed, followed by another pop. Hollister was yelling.

“Go check on them, will you?” said Porter.

Duke nodded, running back into the corridor with his Taser drawn.

“And be careful!” Porter called after him.

He slid off the bearded man, kneeling next to him so that he could roll him onto his side. He pulled the hood away from his face, and the guy stared back at him through a curtain of long hair. He was much younger than he’d first thought, only in his twenties. His dark eyes were full of fear, swivelling from side to side like he was high. He was muttering something, the soft words interspersed with grunts.

“What’s your name?” asked Porter.

Just those same noises.

“You hurt?”

Nothing. The guy didn’t look like he was all there.

“Stay down,” said Porter, clambering to his feet.

He staggered to the door, leaning out and trying to see anything through the swirling smoke. Somebody was definitely screaming. A woman. He hoped it wasn’t Ali.

“Aaron? What’s going on?”

Duke appeared, holstering his Taser. He stroked a hand over his moustache like Wyatt Earp after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

“Threat’s been neutralised,” he said.

“What the hell does that mean? Dead?”

“She’s down,” said Duke, glancing back into the room. “Restrained. It’s a girl.”

“Girl?”

Hollister appeared, squeezing past Duke and walking down the corridor. His rifle was stowed, but he was rattled. He looked through the door at the man on the floor.

“I’ll stay with him,” he said. “You go.”

“He’s not fighting back,” said Porter. “But don’t take your eyes off him.”

Porter walked to the door at the end, seeing another bare bedroom choked with clouds of smoke. The gunpowder smell of it caught in his sinuses. The only light came from Ali’s torch, and it picked out the young woman in sharp relief. She sat in the corner, dressed in a purple tracksuit. Her hands were cuffed behind her, her legs pulled up to her chin. She stared over her knees with one part terror to three parts defiant rage.

She couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

“Bag of fireworks there,” said Ali, her hand resting on her rifle.

Not just fireworks. Next to the canvas satchel was a large duffel bag. Inside it, Porter saw the gleam of metal, the blade of a saw, maybe.

Or a scythe.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl didn’t reply, her eyes burning.

“Anyone else here?”

Just that same filthy look.

“That man through there, you know him? Has he been keeping you here? Are you hurt?”

She was as talkative as the guy had been. He couldn’t figure her out. She looked every bit the victim, her hair matted, her skin dirty, her tracksuit torn. But there was nobody else here, she had to have been the person who’d lit the fireworks and thrown them.

He wasn’t going to make any sense of it here, in the dark.

“Bring them both in,” he said to Ali. “Separate cars.”

“Arrest them, sir?”

He thought about it for a second before nodding. He headed into the corridor, glaring at Duke for no particular reason. He walked back to the first room, where the bearded man had rolled onto his stomach again. He was still making those noises, more animal than human. His hands flexed behind his back, the fingers caked in dirt and something else, something red.

Blood.

“This is too much of a coincidence,” said Porter, pulling out his phone. He called Kett as he walked down the stairs.

“Pete?” came the answer after a couple of rings. The signal was bad, Kett’s voice choppy. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, sir,” said Porter. “More than alright. I think we’ve got him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Savage had only just reached the top of the basement steps when she heard a bleep from Healey’s radio. Both AFOs were ahead of her, running through the main body of the barn, heading for the cars. Healey stopped to listen, his head angled. Even from back here, Savage heard the operator’s voice.

“Backup cancelled, stand down.”

“Stand down,” he said. “Confirm?”

“Confirm.”

Savage leaned against the wall, letting her heart settle. Clare was still climbing the steps, looming out of the dark like an angry blobfish rising from the depths.

“False alarm, sir,” she said.

He reached the top, struggling for breath. In the barn, the radio bleeped again, but the two firearms officers had moved off so she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Waste of bloody time,” said Clare. “Whole thing’s a waste of bloody time. Might as well have spent my night tossing off Postman Pat for all the good it’s done.”

“Not sure Pat would agree with that,” said Savage.

Clare’s phone started to ring, and he almost ripped a hole in his pocket pulling it out. He studied the screen, groaned at the ceiling, then answered it.

“Whatever you’ve got to say to me, Pete,” he growled, “I’m in no mood for it.”

Porter’s reply was too faint to make out.

“What do you mean you’ve got him?” he said.

“They’ve got him?” said Savage, her heart fluttering. “The killer?”

Clare pushed his hand against her mouth to shut her up. She took a few steps back, furiously rubbing her hand over her lips to get rid of the salty taste of him.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

He waited for Porter to answer.

“I asked if you were sure, Pete. I only want to hear one answer… No, not that answer. The other one. You’re sure?”

Clare looked at Savage.

“He’s sure,” he said, and when Porter obviously started arguing, he spoke over him. “You’re sure, or you’re fired. What about Kett?”

He nodded a couple of times.

“Fell in a hole? What kind of hole?”

Savage had to bite her lip from the frustration of not knowing.

“Why would I give a monkey’s enema about his boot, Pete?”

“Boot?” said Savage.

“That’s good,” said Clare, flashing a yellow-toothed smile at her. “That’s great. We’ll meet you there.”

Clare hung up.

“Porter’s got him,” he said.

“He’s sure, sir?” she asked.

“He is.”

“Because he didn’t sound massively sure.”

“He’s bloody sure, Kate, stop ruining it. Healey! Paxton!”

Healey jogged through from the main room of the barn, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He lifted his visor, using a gloved hand to scrub the sweat from his face.

“Check in with every group, see if anyone else has any leads,” said Clare. “But it looks like we’ve bagged this tossnoodle, so⁠—”

They all heard it at the same time, the echo of crunching footsteps as somebody climbed the basement stairs, moving fast. It took Savage’s brain a fraction of a second to realise that it couldn’t be one of them, but by the time she’d called out a warning, Clare was already turning.

An enormous figure in black exploded through the door, so tall that he had to stoop. His face was concealed by a hood, his groaning breaths punching out from the darkness within. In his hands was a scythe, the shaft almost as tall as he was, the curved blade wickedly sharp. He swung it without hesitation, the blade singing as it cut through the air.

Clare staggered back, his hands out to defend himself.

The scythe arced down with brutal strength. It hit the Superintendent’s left arm just beneath the elbow, cleaving through flesh and bone with a wet crack, severing it effortlessly.

The limb landed on the stone floor, fingers twitching.

“No!” screamed Savage.

Clare didn’t make a sound. A spray of blood jetted from the wound, sluicing across the floor. He staggered into the wall, sliding down it, one hand gripping the stub of his elbow as more blood erupted outwards.

The hooded figure strode forward, angling the scythe for another attack. Healey was fumbling with his rifle, lifting it.

Too slow.

The man swung the scythe upwards like it weighed nothing, the point of the blade hitting the tactical officer below the chin and sinking deep into his neck.

The rifle fired, the shot thudding into the wall.

Savage screamed again, stumbling down the narrow corridor. The hooded man pulled the scythe free with a spray of blood and Healey slumped to the ground, grasping at the ruin of his throat.

“Fuck,” said Savage, still retreating. Her body wasn’t working the way she wanted it to, numb with shock.

The attacker turned, blood dripping from the blade of his weapon. It was still too dark to see his face, but he was looking right at her. He was enormous, well over six foot tall, his shoulders so broad he seemed to stretch from wall to wall.

“Don’t,” she said.

He started towards her, angling the scythe, ready to swing it again. His robes opened, revealing a nest of yellow ribs and tattered flesh.

The Grim Reaper, Savage thought, because what else could it be?

She tripped, her back hitting the wall. She put out her hands, well aware of how little defence they would give her. She fumbled inside the storm of her thoughts.

“It’s not my time to die,” she said.

The Reaper stopped. He cocked his head, still uttering those awful, groaning breaths. Behind him, Clare slumped further to the side, his face lost to the dark. She could hear the spray and splash of blood as he emptied out over the stone floor.

“It’s not my time to die,” Savage said. “Please.”

The man started walking again, raising the scythe so high it scraped the ceiling.

He was going to kill her.

A gunshot split the air, and the man staggered towards her like somebody had given him a shove. The scythe fell with a clang.

“Armed police!” shrieked Paxton as he ran into the corridor. “Get on the floor!”

The Reaper bolted past Savage, clutching his shoulder with one hand. He ran through a door just as another shot rang out, the frame splintering.

“On the fucking floor!” roared the AFO as he followed. “Now!”

The door crunched shut, a bolt sliding into place.

“Fuck!” said Paxton, grabbing the handle, wrenching it. “It’s locked!”

Savage ran to the Superintendent, dropping down beside him. Clare was looking at her, but he didn’t seem to be seeing anything. His face was pale, his breaths stunted, his lips curled back to reveal his teeth.

“You’re alright,” she said. “Don’t move, sir.”

His arm had been amputated. The blood was still coming, jetting through his fingers, forming a crimson mist. Savage grabbed the stump, clamping it as hard as she could, her hands slipping in the boiling mess.

He was going to bleed out in seconds.

“I need a tourniquet!” she screamed. “Paxton, a tourniquet!”

Paxton didn’t reply. He was on his knees beside Healey, one hand over the wound in the young man’s throat. Healey was past saving, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling.

“John,” Savage sobbed. “Please.”

She unbuckled her belt, sliding it out of the loops of her trousers. She tried to wrap it around the Super’s arm, but he was losing consciousness, sliding further down the wall. He started to fit, his trembling body making it impossible to tighten the makeshift tourniquet.

“Sir!” said Savage. “Just stay awake, stay with me.”

She turned to Paxton.

“John! I need help!”

Paxton heard her, looking round. It took him another moment or two to snap out of it, then he ran over, yelling into his radio.

“Man down, we need an ambulance at the barn, and backup units. Suspect sighted, he’s…”

There was a crunch from deeper in the building, and Savage had to lock the scream in her throat. She turned to the basement door, then looked the other way, down the dark corridor. Was that the Reaper, peeling from the shadows?

Paxton saw where she was looking and turned. The light from his torch picked out the empty hallway.

“He’s gone,” he said.

He grabbed the Superintendent’s arm, offering it to her. She wound the belt around it, pulling it through the loop. She braced her foot on the ground, her shoe skidding in the pool of blood. She pulled as hard as she could, one last gout of blood erupting from the wound before the flow started to ease.

Clare lay on the floor, his eyes open.

He looked dead.

“Sir?” said Savage, the tears falling freely. “Sir? Stay with me, please.”

She gripped the tourniquet with one hand, putting the other to his face, then to his neck. There was a pulse, but she didn’t know if it was his or hers. Her body felt like it had been hooked up to an electrical current, everything fizzing, everything numb.

“Colin,” she said. “Don’t you dare die on me. You hear me?”

“ETA on the ambulance?” Paxton said into the radio. “It’s the Super, he’s bleeding out. His… his fucking arm’s gone.”

The radio bleeped, loud enough that it almost hid a noise from the basement stairs.

A scream.

The current inside Savage seemed to double in strength, her ears breaking into a whine. The corridor spun, and she gripped Clare’s tourniquet even harder, as if it was a rope on a mountainside, the only thing stopping her from falling.

“Repeat?” said Paxton. “ETA?”

Savage stared at the basement door, nothing visible at all in that solid slab of darkness.

And she heard it again, distant but undeniable.

Somebody was screaming.

“What is that?” said Paxton, popping the stud on his sidearm holster. “Is that him?”

The radio hissed.

“Backup’s two minutes away,” said the operator. “Ambulance is going to be twenty.”

“Tell it to speed the fuck up,” said Paxton. “We don’t have twenty minutes.”

Another scream, more insistent now. There was a word inside it, barely audible but unmistakeable.

Somebody was screaming for help.

Savage looked at Paxton, and he shook his head.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said. “Not until we’ve got more guns.”

“They could be hurt,” she said.

“You let go of that,” said Paxton, nodding to Clare’s arm, “and he’s dead.”

She checked for a pulse again, feeling nothing but the sticky heat of the Superintendent’s blood. Clare’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets, his body trembling like a piece of broken machinery.

“Colin?” she said. “Sir?”

Nothing. She couldn’t even be sure if he was breathing.

“Get him flat,” she said. “We need to do CPR.”

Paxton grabbed Clare’s feet, gently pulling him away from the wall. He used his teeth to tear off his glove, pushing his fingers into the Superintendent’s neck. Then he lowered his ear to his chest.

“Still ticking,” he said.

“You sure?” said Savage.

“Bastard’s tough as nails,” he said. “But⁠—”

A clatter of footsteps echoed through the barn. Paxton pushed himself to his feet, tearing the pistol from its holster. They waited for what felt like forever until a voice called out.

“John?”

Savage released the air in her lungs.

“In here!” yelled Paxton, holstering the gun.

Two AFOs ran through the door, almost tripping over each other. One was carrying a medical bag. Their torches flooded the corridor, revealing the carnage in far too much detail: a lake of blood, the dead man, and Clare’s severed arm, one finger crooked like it was trying to beckon them to it.

All while those same screams rang out from beneath them.

“Fuck me,” said one, leaning over Healey. “Alan?”

“He’s dead,” said Paxton.

“How?”

The other officer ran to Savage, dropping to her knees and ripping off her helmet. It was Raelyn Yates, the medic, and she did what Paxton had done only moments ago: placing her head on Clare’s chest.

“What happened?” she said.

“That happened,” said Paxton, pointing to the fallen scythe. “Some freak dressed like Death, came out of that door, cut it off before we even knew it was happening. Killed…”

He choked on the word, breaking into coughs.

“He killed Healey,” Savage finished. “Didn’t even hesitate. Paxton got him, though.”

“Yeah?” said the AFO. “Where is he, then?”

“Only clipped him,” said Paxton, his bloody hands resting on top of his head. “Fucker ran through there, locked the door.”

“Is he going to make it?” said Savage.

“I don’t know,” Yates answered.

She opened her bag, pulling out a proper tourniquet. She wound it around the Superintendent’s arm, just up from Savage’s belt.

“Grant, find some blankets,” she said. “Coats. Anything. We need to keep him warm. What’s the ETA on the ambulance?”

“Twenty minutes,” said Savage. “Fifteen, maybe.”

“Too long,” said Yates.

She cocked her head.

“Why can I hear screaming, Kate?”

“I don’t know,” Savage replied.

“Then maybe you should find out. John, you good?”

Paxton didn’t reply, staring at Healey.

“John!” Yates snapped, and he looked at her. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Go with her.”

Savage still clung to the Superintendent’s arm, too frightened to let go.

“I don’t want to leave him,” she said.

“There’s nothing else you can do here,” said Yates, checking for a pulse again. “You want to help, help whoever the fuck is down there.”

For a second or two, Savage didn’t think she could unclamp her fingers. She had to force her hand to release Clare’s arm, and even then she needed Paxton’s help to stand up. He hooked his hand under her, hefting her to her feet. Then he made his way to the basement door. He lifted the rifle, composing himself for a second before sinking into the dark.

“He might still be here, Rae,” said Savage.

She followed Paxton down the steps, the shifting shadows from their torches looking far too much like lunging figures. The soundtrack of screams continued, raw, breathless, relentless enough to drive her mad. By the time she reached the bottom, she felt like she was made of glass, like she might shatter at the slightest touch.

“The hell?” said Paxton.

He aimed his torch across the room, to the collection of shelves and cupboards against the far wall. The sideboard was angled outwards, revealing an open door behind it. A light blazed from within.

“Please!” screamed whoever was through there, their voice much clearer now. “Please help me!”

Paxton held the rifle steady as he crossed the room.

“Police,” he said. His voice was hoarse, trembling. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Police. Who’s in there?”

There was no way it could have been the hooded figure, could it? Unless there was another way down, of course. Unless he’d gone around. He’d lost his scythe, but what else did he have? A knife? An axe?

A gun?

“Please,” said the voice. It was high pitched, but something about it made Savage think it was a man. “I’m hurt.”

They reached the sideboard, and Savage saw that it was on casters, just like the bookcase back at the church in the woods. The light from the other side was so bright it hurt her eyes. She held up her hand as a shield, peering through her fingers, making out a corridor with breezeblock walls and a concrete floor.

“Please,” said the voice. “Hurry!”

“This isn’t right,” said Paxton, hovering in the secret door. He was shaking his head. “It’s a trap.”

Savage felt the same panic, like a punch to the gut. She leaned through, seeing the corridor stretch maybe twenty yards before turning. Thick, black cables ran the length of the walls, industrial lights screwed into the ceiling.

“Please,” said the voice. Not a scream now but a desperate plea for help.

She stepped through the door, making her way slowly, feeling pure relief when she looked back to see that Paxton was following her. She turned the corner, trying to swallow past the stone in her throat.

A single, open door.

She knew exactly what she’d see when she walked inside, but even so, it still took the last of her breath away.

This space wasn’t as large as the body of the church where Kathryn and Lina had been held, but it was still a good ten metres from the door to the opposite wall. Two men hung there, suspended on wooden frames. Both had their arms out to their sides, their legs together in a crude Y, their feet barely touching the stone floor. Both were naked, apart from their underwear and a second skin of dried blood. Both looked like they’d been beaten to a pulp.

But only one was alive.

He was in his fifties, his belly hanging over his crotch like it was trying to preserve his modesty. His dirty hair was silver, his face hidden by a filthy white beard. He opened his mouth like a wild animal in a trap, baring his teeth. His bloodshot eyes looked like balloons, ready to pop. He stared at Savage as if she was an enemy, as if she’d walked right out of a nightmare, and it took her a moment to understand it was because she was drenched in blood.

The man turned to Paxton, the relief changing his face completely.

“Help me,” he said, a shriek that rose in pitch. “Get me off this fucking thing!”

Savage ran to him as fast as her body would let her, hearing her own words like somebody else was speaking them.

“You’re okay, it’s okay.”

Although nothing about this was okay. Nothing would ever be okay.

She walked into the stench of the man, running her fingers behind his arms to feel the wire there. He tugged against his binds, his body spasming, the noises coming from his throat barely human.

“Wait,” said Savage. “Calm down. You need to calm down.”

She turned to Paxton, who stood in the middle of the room like a frightened child.

“We need help,” she said. “Wire cutters. We need that ambulance.”

He turned, all too happy to run back the way they’d come. Savage had to resist the overwhelming urge to call after him, to ask him to stay. But she was safe. There was nothing else in the room, no place to hide, no doors for the Reaper to run through, not even hidden ones. The only other person here was the dead man, old leather hanging on a frame of bones, his face skeletal.

She took the living man’s hand in hers, she held it tight.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

She breathed slowly, deeply, until he fell into the same rhythm. He stared at her, never breaking eye contact, his hand squeezing hers reflexively, again, and again, and again.

“You’re going to be okay.”

She kept saying it. A dozen times. A hundred times. Over, and over, and over, until she heard footsteps. She turned to see a pair of paramedics enter the room, Paxton behind them.

And behind him, thank God, Duke.

She stepped back to make way for the paramedics, her legs almost giving out. Duke was there in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, feeding his strength into her broken body, her broken mind. She pushed herself against him, too numb to cry.

“Is he okay?” she said, her breath hot against his uniform. “Is he okay?”

She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, so she pulled away, feeling his arms resist for a second before letting her go. His face was gaunt, as if he’d grown old while she’d been down here. She saw the answer in his downturned mouth, in the sunken hollows of his eyes.

“Aaron,” she said. “Is Clare okay?”

“No,” said Duke, shaking his head. “He’s gone.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Kett crunched through the hospital door before it had even slid fully open, almost taking it out of its frame. The reception area was full of coppers, most of whom he knew from the station, and all wearing the same expressions of anger and fear. He pushed through the crowd, still caked in filth, still missing one boot. A PC buzzed open the door to A&E, ushering him into the relative quiet beyond.

Savage and Duke sat on chairs halfway down a corridor, their heads in their hands. Savage was dressed in surgical scrubs. Her skin was crimson, her hair clotted with drying blood. They looked up when they heard him coming, and he saw that they’d both been crying, the tears carving runnels into the dirt of their faces.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” said Kett, knowing even as he spoke how useless his words were here.

“It’s true,” said Savage, standing up.

He walked to her, pulling her close, holding her tight, smelling death in her hair. When he let go, she was crying again. She pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes, sobbing.

“He came out of nowhere,” she said. “Out of this hidden door in the basement. But we should have checked, we should have checked, sir. If we’d found the door, he might not have…”

“Kate, none of this is your fault,” said Kett when her words dried up. “You’re okay? You’re hurt?”

She shook her head, dropping her hands. Duke collected one in both of his, gripping it.

“He killed Healey,” she said, her voice hitching. “Used a… a scythe. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“And Clare?” asked Kett.

Savage looked at the door a little way down the corridor.

“They’re operating now,” she said.

Kett put his hands in his hair, forcing himself to take a breath.

“He’s alive?” he asked. “Because when you called…”

He’d barely been able to hear her, her signal in the barn as bad as his outside the mill, but he could have sworn she’d told him the Superintendent had died.

“That might have been my fault, sir,” said Duke, still holding Savage’s hand. “Kate asked me if the Super was okay.”

“And?” said Kett.

“And Aaron said he was gone,” Savage told him.

“I meant gone in the ambulance,” said Duke. “He’s gone. Like, he’s not here any more. Not gone like he’s dead.”

“You didn’t think to say, ‘he’s gone in the ambulance?’” asked Kett, resisting the urge to smack the constable around the back of the head. The relief was almost overwhelming.

“Yeah,” said Duke, letting go of Savage and sitting back. “I probably could have made that clearer.”

“Clare lost a lot of blood,” said Savage. “Raelyn did what she could, but the paramedics… They said to prepare for the worst.”

“He’s strong, Kate,” said Kett. “One of the strongest people I know. He’ll be okay.”

She nodded, managing a smile.

“He has to be,” she said. “Or his last word will have been tossnoodle.”

She sniffed, wiping her face on the sleeve of her scrubs.

“His arm. God, he cut it clean off, he didn’t even hesitate.”

“With a scythe?” said Kett.

She nodded, looking at the door again.

“He knew what he was doing with it. Moved like he’d trained, like he’d been doing it for years.”

“Shit weapon,” said Duke, and Kett frowned.

“Doesn’t seem particularly shit to me, Aaron.”

“I can testify it’s not,” said Savage, shuddering. “We had this before, remember? In the Hateful Thing case. Pruitt and his coven used one.”

“I mean it’s a shit weapon if you don’t know what you’re doing with it,” said Duke. “Scythes are massive, hard to hold, they’re designed for cutting grass or whatever at ankle height. You try swinging one, only thing it’ll do is pull your opponent towards you. Better off with a sword or an axe or something.”

Kett looked to Savage to clarify, and she nodded.

“There’s a reason you hardly ever hear about killers using them,” she said. “But this guy isn’t using it because it’s a good weapon. He’s using it because of what it represents.”

“The Reaper,” said Duke, shaking his head.

“The Reaper,” Savage echoed. “This isn’t a game to him. It’s not a performance, or an act. This guy genuinely believes he’s the Grim Reaper. He thinks he’s Death. I… I saw it myself.”

She took a few steps along the corridor, running a hand through her hair until she remembered what was in it. She smeared her palms down her scrubs, lost in the memory of what had happened. Kett’s bare foot was throbbing, his spine full of glass, so he took her chair. The second he sat down, he felt the exhaustion wrap itself around his face like a wet cloth, everything growing dark, every breath coming reluctantly.

“He was wearing a robe,” Savage went on. “This long, black thing. A hood. I couldn’t see his face, I couldn’t see it even when I thought there was light on it. Just… just darkness. But his body, his chest.”

She stopped again, struggling.

“He had these bones on him. Yellow, covered in meat or something. Like a ribcage. And the smell of him.”

She put the back of her hand to her mouth.

“I thought, for a second, that it was him, you know? That it was Death. So stupid, but the shock of what happened. He believes it. I’d bet anything, sir. He thinks he’s something else, something more than human. He’s a visionary killer, he’s psychotic, delusional, driven by the belief that he has a job to do, a duty.”

“To punish people who’ve avoided death,” said Kett.

“I don’t think it’s a punishment,” said Savage. “I think he’s just putting things right. But he’s organised, he’s methodical. He’s been doing this for a long time.”

“He’s also wounded,” said Duke.

“Shit,” said Kett. “How?”

“I completely forgot,” said Savage, slapping her hand to her forehead. “Paxton put a bullet in his shoulder. He got behind a locked door before he could take him down, but it was a direct hit. He’s hurt.”

“We’re looking for him?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Everyone knows. Hospitals are on alert, but he’s not going to use one. He’ll try to fix himself.”

“Hopefully the fucker will bleed to death,” said Duke.

“What do you think he’ll do next?” said Kett.

Savage didn’t have time to speak before the door to the operating theatre opened. A nurse came out, moving fast.

“Any news?” said Savage.

“Not yet,” she said, hurrying to the door. “No worse, but no better.”

She pushed into the crowd that waited in the other corridor. Kett waited until the sound of their chatter was muted by the closing door, then he asked the question again.

“What will he do now?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Savage, leaning on the opposite wall.

“What would you do, if you were him?”

She tilted her head to the ceiling, closing her eyes against the glare of the light.

“I don’t want to be inside his head,” she said.

“We don’t have a choice, Kate. You found two men in the barn, right?”

She nodded, her eyes still closed.

“One dead, the other alive. Just. He’s in surgery too.”

“You get a name?”

“Yeah, but not much else. He was hysterical. Julien. Doesn’t remember his surname.”

“No sign of the girl that Enid was talking about? Marla Fisher?”

“No,” said Savage, just a breath.

“Which means there’s every chance she’s still out there. The church. The barn. He’s working from multiple locations. There could be three of them. Four.”

He lifted his arms, feeling the desperation wash over him.

“Could be ten for all we know. But he’s still out there. His victims are still out there. So what does he do next?”

“He finishes his work,” said Savage. “He ends it.”

“He kills them?”

She nodded again.

“I still don’t think he wants to be a murderer. He doesn’t want to hurt them. But he wants them to die. He needs them to. His manifesto, his reason for being. If he knows we’re on to him, if he thinks we’re going to stop him, if he realises he’s running out of time, then he’s going to move faster. He won’t let these ones die slowly.”

She paced back.

“That’s probably why he was at the barn. We might have got to him before he could murder Julien. But he will kill them. The very existence of his victims, the fact they’re alive at all, is some kind of affront to him, an abomination. He can’t rest until he returns them to the place he thinks they should be.”

She shrugged.

“I think.”

Kett rubbed his face, smelling the stench of the old mill.

“Did we get lucky anywhere else?” Savage asked. “Any of those other locations on Karen’s list?”

“No,” said Kett. “We’ve been inside them all, but you said there was a secret door in the barn, didn’t you? So we’ll need to go back. We could have walked right past them. Fuck!”

He pushed himself up, the chair scraping over the floor.

“What else did you see, Kate? What else do we know about him?”

“I, uh… He’s big, sir. Well over six foot. And wide, too. Strong. But it was hard to tell with the cloak and the hood.”

“You didn’t see where he went? A car? Anything?”

“No,” said Savage. “It was too… There was too much going on, and…”

She lifted her hands, staring at them. She’d washed off the blood, but she could obviously still see it.

“Hey,” Duke said softly. “You’re alright.”

“He dropped the scythe, he might have left prints. And Porter’s out there. He’s looking for cameras, anyone that might have seen him.”

“And he’s hurt,” said Duke, pushing himself out of the chair and standing protectively between Savage and Kett. “He must be bleeding. Somebody will see him.”

Kett nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “Somebody will see him. Go home, Kate. Get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here.”

“The only thing I can do is be here,” she said.

She took Duke’s hand, the pair of them leaning against each other; battered, bruised, bloodied. They wouldn’t leave Clare’s side, Kett knew, however it ended.

“Call me as soon as there’s news,” he said. “Good or bad.”

“I will,” said Savage.

He gave them a nod, then limped away.

“Be careful, sir,” she called after him. “He’s not done yet.”

Kett buzzed himself through the door, walking back into the congregation of police officers who waited outside. There were dozens of them, more still arriving to hold vigil. They quietened when Kett appeared, all looking to him for an answer. He cleared his throat, trying to find one.

“You know exactly what he’d tell you if he saw you standing here,” he said. “Toss off, the lot of you, and get back to work.”

A ripple of muted laughter washed down the corridor, but every pair of eyes was haunted.

“We need to find this man,” Kett went on. “We need to bring him down. We can’t do that in here. We can do it out there. Okay?”

A flurry of nods.

“So go find this piece of shit,” he said.

The coppers began to move away, funnelling through the door with a renewed sense of purpose. It went against every instinct in Kett’s body to walk after them, because he needed to be here for Clare.

But he was right. Staying in the hospital wasn’t going to help anyone.

He’s not done yet, Savage had told him.

He checked his watch. It was coming up for three. The night was still young.

“Neither am I,” he said.

Porter was done, in every sense of the word.

He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d felt more exhausted. Not when he’d first started on the Force, back-to-back shifts in uniform with Kett in London, patrolling the estates. Not when he’d been juggling the job and baby Bobby a couple of years ago, so exhausted that he’d actually started hallucinating. Not even in the last handful of cases, all of which had been pulled right out of Satan’s arsehole.

Never once, in all that time, had he seriously contemplated quitting. Now, though, with Clare in surgery and Alan Healey dead, he honestly felt like he’d reached his limit.

Life was too short to be chasing death.

He trudged through the woods just east of the barn where Savage and the Superintendent had been attacked. His torch, and the torches of the three AFOs who walked with him, kept the night away like it was a wild animal. Every time they heard a noise and swept the lights in one direction, the darkness rushed in behind them, teeth bared, eyes wild. Close by, a helicopter churned the air, the thump of its rotors powerful enough for Porter to feel it. Every time it passed overhead, its spotlight lit up the trees like it was dawn, bright enough to make the birds start singing.

He was grateful for it, though, because the Reaper was out there, somewhere in these woods. There was no way of knowing for sure, of course, but Savage claimed she hadn’t seen a vehicle when they’d driven up to the building, and nobody had found one in the searches that had followed. Clare’s Mercedes was blocking the driveway, which meant nobody had been parked out of sight, and there was only one road nearby, which was currently swarming with police cars.

The killer had to be on foot.

Porter had left the two people they’d found in the chapel with Eliana Ali and the other AFO. Neither the teenage girl who’d thrown the fireworks or her bearded companion had said a word, but he figured a short stay in custody would change that. It was obvious now, though, that they had nothing to do with the case. It had just been bad luck that they’d stumbled onto them; theirs more than his.

“Anything?” said John Paxton behind him.

The man was gaunt, and he held his rifle like he was moving through a battlefield. Porter didn’t blame him. Savage had left by the time he’d arrived, riding in the ambulance with Clare, but he’d heard the details of what had happened.

A man in black, armed with a scythe. The Grim Reaper, tending to his dead and his dying. He’d cut Clare’s arm clean off. His fucking arm. Porter felt the red line of his rage deep inside him, a fire that was hot enough to make the whole world burn.

He pulled out his phone, looking for an update, finding nothing but Bobby’s face smiling back at him.

“Sir?” said Paxton. “You see anything?”

“You’re seeing the same things I’m seeing, John,” said Porter. He pocketed his phone and aimed his torch into the treetops, the branches spread like sickly veins over the night sky. “Which is sweet fuck all.”

“I swear to God, if this prick is out here, I’m gonna shoot him again, gonna put him down,” said Paxton. “Doesn’t matter if he’s running at us or running away or taking a piss. He’s getting a bullet in the head.”

“No he’s not,” said Porter. “This guy’s holding more people somewhere, and they might be alive. We kill him, we’ll never find them.”

He took a few more steps before glancing back.

“As soon as we’ve got them, though, he’s all yours.”

Paxton’s smile was short lived, and Porter knew the truth of it. It was easy to talk about vengeance and retribution, especially after something like this, after one of their own had suffered so much harm.

It was much harder to pull the trigger.

His mind flashed back to what had happened in Suffolk in the Spring, with DI Harrison Baird. For a second, he thought he heard that awful, solitary gunshot.

Then he realised it was something else, a branch cracking in the woods, off to the right.

He made sure the AFOs had heard it before pushing into the bastard bushes that walled off the track. There were more trees on the other side, startled by the sudden appearance of so many police. The ground was a little less overgrown here, the dirt bone dry. He upped his speed, sweeping the torch from side to side, seeing nothing.

“Where are you?” he muttered. “Just show yourself.”

Although part of him hoped the Reaper wouldn’t do anything of the sort, because Paxton had told him what he’d seen: a giant, freakishly strong, brutally precise. Killers like that, proper psychos, didn’t come along that often, not even here in Norfolk, where every monster on the planet seemed to end up. No, this guy wasn’t just a murderer and a torturer. He wasn’t just a wannabe cop killer.

He was the purest kind of evil.

Paxton was right. He needed to be put down.

“You see that?” hissed another member of the firearms team. “One o’clock, fifty yards.”

Even with those instructions, Porter couldn’t understand what he was talking about. It was only when he’d moved on a little further that the shape peeled itself from the gloom: a small, black van, hunkered in a clearing beneath a crowd of looming wych elms. Every torch lit it up like it was on stage.

“Fan out,” said Paxton. “On me.”

Porter slowed, allowing the AFOs to take the lead, but not letting himself fall too far behind in case something charged out of the shadows. They moved in silence until they’d almost reached the van, then they burst into the clearing in a stampede of shouts.

Within ten seconds, they’d fallen silent again.

“Clear,” said somebody, almost disappointed.

Porter ducked under the low branches of the elms, using his torch to scour the van. It was a VW Caddy, the panels dented, the bumper sitting at an angle. There were no plates, but the shape of it belonged to the late 2010s. This close, he saw that it wasn’t black but navy blue, no livery of any kind.

The driver’s door was open.

“You sure it’s clear?” said Porter.

“Yeah,” said Paxton.

“He’s not in the back?”

The man shone his torch through the door.

“I can see right through, sir.”

“He underneath it?” Porter asked.

As one, all four men took a step back.

Somebody dropped down, their torch creating a carpet of light.

“Clear,” he said.

Despite all of that, Porter still moved carefully, keeping his distance as he circled the van. He flicked his torch up, illuminating an interior that was clear but definitely not clean. The dark seats were smeared with something wet, the steering wheel slick. It was only when he angled his torch the right way that he understood what he was looking at.

“That’s blood,” he said. “A lot of it.”

He leaned in, smelling the iron tang in the air, and the reek of age-old grime. When he shone the torch into the footwell he spotted a set of keys sitting in a crimson puddle.

“He’s too badly hurt to drive,” he said, feeling the slightest glimmer of hope. “Where’d you shoot him, John? The shoulder, yeah?”

“Right one, sir.”

“You’ve hobbled him. He obviously got as far as his van and couldn’t drive it. Pretty hard to work a stick when you’re one handed, especially in the woods, and especially when you’re bleeding this much.”

He leaned in as far as he could without touching the sodden seats. The back of the van looked empty.

“Get those doors open, make sure there’s nothing in there,” he said, escaping. He aimed the torch into the woods, seeing the track that vanished between the trees. “He’s on foot. Tell the chopper to move over this way, and check on the dogs. I’ll call Kett.”

He found his phone again, muttering to the trees as he dialled.

“We’re closing in on you, motherfucker.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“I thought you said you were closing in on him?” said Kett.

He leaned against the IRV, his forehead resting on the cool metal of the roof. He was wearing his trainers, but his foot still ached. They were parked outside an abandoned flint cottage not far from the village of Shotesham, to the south of Norwich. The property had already been cleared once, like everything else on the list Karen Fields had given them, but Savage’s discovery of the hidden door in the barn had rendered every search pointless. Kett was kicking himself, because even the first murder room they’d found hadn’t made it easy for them, the victims hidden right at the back behind a moveable bookcase.

They should have looked harder. They should have paid more attention.

They were wasting time they didn’t have.

Porter coughed down the phone, groaning. It was the second time Kett had spoken to him in just over two hours, and the news wasn’t good.

“I thought we were, sir,” he said, his voice fading for a second before coming back, so loud that Kett had to pull the phone away from his ear. “He can’t have got far, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Talk me through it, Pete.”

“He accessed the woods through the back road. It’s a track, really. Drove in as far as he could, and then it’s a ten-minute walk from there to the barn. Must have done it that way so nobody would see him, because it’s not an easy trek. Trees are bastards.”

“So he came back that way after he attacked Clare?” said Kett.

“Yeah. Opened the van, tried to drive, but he’s too badly hurt. Dropped the keys, took off towards the road. He left a trail of blood, easy pickings for the dogs. They tracked him to the main road and then lost him.”

“You think he got in somebody’s car?” said Kett.

“Doubt it. Who’s going to pick up a seven-foot freak dressed like the Grim Reaper and covered in blood?”

“He could have ditched the robe, or put it in a bag,” said Kett. “Flagged down a driver and told them he was injured. Once he’s in, he overpowers them, takes the car.”

“Except we already know he can’t drive,” said Porter. “His van started fine, plenty of fuel.”

“So he pulls a knife and forces them to drive him.”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “That’s probably it. The only other explanation is he goes in the river. There’s a stream close to where the dogs lost his scent. If he’d waded through that for a bit he could have lost them. They’re trying to pick him up on the other side, but no luck, and the chopper’s done a million fly-bys, no sign of him.”

“I’ll get more Uniforms out there,” said Kett. “As many as I can spare. Somebody must have seen him. Like you said, he’s a seven-foot freak dressed like the Grim Reaper and covered in blood.”

Porter was silent for a moment, and Kett guessed what he was going to ask.

“No,” he told the DI. “I haven’t heard anything. Not yet. But Clare’s tough, Pete. He’s as tough as they come. If anyone can survive that, he will.”

“Yeah,” said Porter, although he didn’t sound sure. “You seen the news, by the way?”

“The news?” said Kett.

He heard a crunch and turned to see two PCs duck out of the low door of the cottage, both covered in cobwebs.

“Everyone’s showing the photos from The Sun, and a bunch more as well,” said Porter. “The ones of Kathryn on the lane at Kate’s church. They won’t reveal the source, but we know who it is.”

“That arsehole photographer,” said Kett. “Did we get his details?”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “Kate sent them over. His name’s Simon. Garrett. Or Garrison. Something like that. PCs tried him yesterday evening after The Sun stuff broke, but he wasn’t home. You want me to pay him a visit?”

“I’ll do it. Not like I’m having much luck here. Text me his address.”

He ended the call, waiting for the PCs to join him by the IRV.

“Nothing in there, sir,” said one, scratching at her neck. “Apart from spiders.”

“So many spiders,” said the other. “Searched everywhere. Down in the cellar, up the attic, everything. Nothing but creepy crawlies.”

“We can look again?” said the woman, unsure. “Maybe we missed something?”

“No,” said Kett, opening the door of the IRV. “We’re going after a different kind of insect.”

It was clear, as soon as they pulled up outside the block of flats where Simon Garrison lived, that he couldn’t have been very good at his job. The building was a stone’s throw from the city centre, a three-storey eyesore that looked like it would collapse if somebody so much as slammed a door. A couple of the apartments had their windows boarded, and almost every spare inch of wall was daubed with graffiti.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a shithole.

The sun had woken, peering over the blanket of the horizon, bleary-eyed and rosy-cheeked. Even though it wasn’t long past five, it was already muggy. It was going to be another scorcher.

Unfortunately, thought Kett, as he climbed out of the IRV.

He took a moment to slap himself gently on the cheeks, popping his lips to try to wake himself up. He felt like he was looking at the world through gauze, his skull stuffed with cotton wool. When he yawned, he almost dislocated his jaw.

The PC who’d driven them replied through a yawn of her own, and he didn’t hear a word of it.

“I said shall we come with you?” she repeated when he gave her a look.

“No,” he told her. “I won’t be long. Try and stay awake.”

He set off towards the external staircase, taking another look at his phone as he went. Porter hadn’t been exaggerating, the photos of Kathryn were everywhere; the headline banners on the BBC News site, the front pages of The Independent and The Times, dominating posts on Facebook and Reddit and even reaching as far as a couple of overseas papers. Most showed the young woman on the lane that led to the church, her face full of horror, her bloodied body censored with crude black rectangles that somehow made her look even more naked, and even more vulnerable. The other faces had been pixelated, but not well enough to hide who they were. There must have been a dozen different images of the scene splashed across the media, which was weird because Kett couldn’t remember even seeing the photographer until he’d met him in the woods.

He marched up the steps to the top floor, walking down a balcony lined with scraggy, piss-scented pot plants. He thought about keeping the volume down for the neighbours, then realised he was too tired to care. When he thumped on the door, he thought he felt the entire structure wobble beneath him. Half a dozen dogs started barking, although he didn’t think any of them were inside the flat.

“Simon, open up,” he yelled, his voice echoing. “It’s the police.”

A light came on in the next flat along, the curtain twitching. Kett ignored it, thumping the door again.

“Open up, or I’m coming through,” he yelled.

He saw a shape in the frosted glass of the photographer’s flat, somebody hurrying over. A lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal the same James Dean lookalike that Kett had met yesterday. He was pulling a dressing gown around himself, struggling with the cord. That terrible tattoo peeked past the collar, the woman’s face gurning. His hair looked as carefully quiffed as it had at the church, as if he’d styled it on the way to the front door. He squinted at Kett, showing no sign of recognition.

“The fuck?” he said.

Kett held up his warrant card, then used the same hand to push Simon backwards—not hard, just firmly enough to get the message across. The lad staggered, his shoulder grazing the wall, the dressing gown in danger of spilling open. Kett chased him in, looming over him.

“The fuck!” Simon said again, more urgently.

“Police,” said Kett, looking through a door on the right to see a small, neat kitchen. “You remember me from yesterday?”

“What?” said Simon, shaking his head. “No? I don’t know. What do you want?”

Kett kept moving, forcing Simon to retreat deeper into the flat, barely enough space in the narrow hallway for them both. The living room was only a little bigger than the kitchen, a sad little sofa facing the sad little TV. Three empty wine bottles sat on the coffee table, as well as a full ashtray that plagued the stuffy air with the stench of old cigarettes and stale weed.

“You can’t be in here,” said Simon. “You have to leave.”

“You want to talk about things we can’t do?” said Kett. “How about selling photographs of crime scenes to newspapers?”

He pushed forward some more, Simon close to losing his footing as they passed the bathroom door. The young man lifted a hand to Kett’s chest like he was going to push him back, but Kett gave him a look—just try it—and he slapped his arms to his sides in frustration.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “But you really can’t be⁠—”

“Si?” came a voice from the rear end of the flat. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he called. “Nothing, babe, don’t worry, I’m sorting it.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re sorting anything to me, mate,” said Kett, whose patience had worn down to the nub.

There were two bedrooms at the back, and he looked into the first to see a small office: a desk beneath the window, piled with photographic gear and a laptop. DVD boxes with no labels crowded the small bookshelf, a smattering of loose discs on the floor beside them. The walls were covered in photographs of young women, most of whom weren’t wearing a lot of clothes.

“I’m warning you,” said Simon, barring the path to the last door. “You can’t be here.”

Kett glared at him, and the young man held his ground for all of five seconds before stepping aside. The last room was the bedroom, with barely enough room for the enormous bed. A young woman sat up in it, clutching the blanket to her bare chest. Young woman felt like a gross miscalculation, Kett realised, as his eyes adjusted. She looked about fifteen years old. It took him a moment to realise he knew her, the girl who’d been with Simon at Kate’s wedding.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“You don’t need to know her name,” said the photographer, before the girl could answer.

“Name,” said Kett.

“You don’t have to answer him,” he said.

“Simon, if another word comes out of your mouth without me asking for it, you’re going to regret it,” said Kett. He turned back to the girl. “Your name.”

“Darcey,” she said.

“How old are you, Darcey?”

“Fuck’s sake,” said Simon. “She’s, like, twenty-one.”

The guy looked at Darcey when he said it, and she nodded like she’d been given a silent instruction. Her eyes were so wide they looked like doll’s eyes, making her seem even younger.

Kett turned to Simon again.

“Out,” he said.

“What do you mean, out? This is my flat, I⁠—”

“You go out the door, or out the window,” he said. “Last warning.”

Simon laughed, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. But after a second or two he sloped towards the open front door. He didn’t quite make it outside. He stood there, craning into the flat, trying to hear what was being said.

“Darcey, I’m a police officer,” said Kett. “Can you tell me how old you are, because you don’t look twenty-one to me.”

She shrugged, pulling the blankets closer to her chest.

“Is Simon your boyfriend?”

Another shrug. She was staring at the duvet like she wanted it to swallow her up.

“Is he taking photographs of you, Darcey?”

“It’s not like that,” Simon yelled from the front of the flat. “I’m helping her out, building up her business. I’m her manager.”

His voice was getting under Kett’s skin, like he had ants there. He was regretting not bringing a PC up with him, partly because the cuffs would be handy, partly because the thought of tasering Simon in the balls right now was insanely tempting.

“Can you get dressed for me, Darcey?” he asked.

She nodded, and he closed the door. He returned to the smaller bedroom, taking a seat at the desk and lifting the lid of the laptop. Simon practically ran to the door, jiffling there like an addict.

“What are you doing?” he said, looking urgently at his computer. “You can’t do that, you need a warrant.”

“What’s your password?” asked Kett.

“I’m not giving you that. No fucking way.”

Kett turned to the cameras instead, two of them nestled in a forest of lenses. There were four camcorders too, all different sizes and colours. He slid on his glasses before picking up the closest one.

“Don’t,” said Simon. He looked like he was going to be sick.

“This is the camera you were using yesterday?” asked Kett.

“No. The other one. Look, I’m sorry about the photographs, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m a photographer, yeah? I document, that’s my job. I saw what was happening, I saw that woman, I documented it. People have a right to know the truth.”

“How much did they pay you for them?” said Kett, putting the first camera down and picking up the second one. “How much, for those photographs of a woman who’d been through hell, who could have died? How much to potentially mess up a police investigation?”

“Like, a couple of grand,” said Simon. “Fuckers at The Sun bought them from me then sold them to everyone else for, like, millions, probably. I can pay it back, if you want. Pay it to charity, whatever you like. Just leave, and I’ll do whatever you say.”

It took Kett a moment to find the power button for the camera. Even with his glasses, he struggled to see anything on the tiny screen. The first shot was the track that led up to the church, Kathryn on the ground, still bleeding. The next one was almost exactly the same, taken a second or two afterwards. There must have been close to fifty of them in all, snapped so close together that as Kett scrolled through them it looked like a video playing in slow motion.

“How did you get these?” he asked. “I didn’t see you standing there.”

“Used the zoom, didn’t I?” said Simon, nodding to a lens that was the size of Kett’s forearm. “Didn’t know what was going on, but it looked important, looked like something the world should see.”

“You didn’t think about sharing them with us? You didn’t think it might help us catch the person who’d done this?”

“Would you have paid me?” asked Simon.

Kett had to bite his lip to dampen the anger. It was tempting to take it out on the arsehole who stood beside him, but none of this was Simon’s fault. He gripped the camera, moving through the photographs, seeing the ambulance arrive, seeing himself.

Seeing Clare, too, both of his arms raised in some kind of tantrum.

Kett felt a shrill whistle break out in the very middle of his skull at the thought of what had happened to the Superintendent. He realised he didn’t even know which arm the man had lost.

The door of the other bedroom opened and Darcey appeared, standing behind Simon. She was taller than Kett remembered her being, almost the same height as the young man. Dressed in jeans and a white shirt, she looked a little older than she had in the bed.

Still not old enough, though.

“Stay there,” Kett told her, moving through the photographs. He spotted Savage talking to a crowd of people, then the convoy that had moved down the track as the church was evacuated. There were quite a few shots from the woods, where Norman Balls had blocked everyone in. Simon had taken another thirty or so photographs here, some of them close-ups of worried faces, kneading hands. Kett spotted the DJ, the catering guy, the flower lady, Frank the janitor, even the randy priest standing at the back of the crowd.

“Just showing the world what happened,” said Simon. “That’s all. It’s not illegal. None of this is illegal.”

“What are you talking about?” said Darcey. “What’s going on?”

“He was taking photographs of a crime scene,” said Kett. “Then selling them to the press.”

“What?” said the girl, her face crumpling in disgust. “What crime scene? That thing at the church? Si, that’s…”

She didn’t seem to have a word for what it was, but the anger inside her was clear enough.

“It’s life,” said the young man, struggling. “It’s what I do.”

Kett glanced at the pictures that had been stuck to the walls of the little room. Two dozen women—girls, really—all half-naked; big smiles and sad eyes. Darcey wasn’t amongst them, which was a small mercy.

“That’s life, is it?” asked Kett.

“I look after them,” said Simon, his whining voice setting Kett’s teeth on edge. “I take the shots, I manage their accounts. It’s consensual, right?”

He asked this of Darcey, and she didn’t reply. She looked like she’d been slapped, her cheeks blazing.

“Got any ID on you, Darcey?” asked Kett, browsing through more photographs.

“You don’t need to see her ID, man,” pleaded Simon. “Just trust me.”

Darcey pulled something from a little clutch bag, leaning over to pass it to him. It was her driving licence—Darcey Anne Pratt was her full, slightly unfortunate, name—and when he checked her date of birth, he saw that Simon hadn’t been lying. She was twenty-one, by a matter of weeks.

“Whatever he’s offering you,” said Kett, handing it back, “whatever he’s promising, it’s not worth it.”

The girl frowned, staring at her driver’s licence.

“I mean this as respectfully as possible,” she said quietly. “But it’s my body, and my life. It’s my choice.”

The smile that landed on Simon’s face was the definition of a shit-eating grin.

“See,” he said. “Told you. I can do what I want, it’s not illegal, just try and stop me.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a prick,” grumbled Kett, too quietly for the man to make out.

“I’m going to go, Si,” said Darcey.

“Don’t go,” Simon told her. “Please? This will all be over in a second, and we can go back to doing what we were doing? You were having fun, right?”

“She’s going,” said Kett, still looking at the camera. “We can drive you home, Darcey. But I want to have a word with you, outside.”

“How about no to both of you,” said the girl.

She lifted both hands, thrusting her middle fingers at Simon. Then she swivelled them in Kett’s direction, holding them there.

“Sick of men telling me what to do,” she said, lowering her hands. “Bunch of dinnies, all of you.”

The change in Simon was immediate. His expression hardened, his eyes growing dark as they studied the young woman. He clenched his fist for a second, then seemed to remember that Kett was there.

“Do what you want,” he told Darcey. “Just remember what happens when you piss me off.”

Kett was about ready to drag Simon from the flat by the scruff of his neck.

“Where were you last night, by the way?” he asked the man.

“Here,” he said, a little too quickly. “All night, right D?”

She was squirming, but she nodded.

“You were both here?” asked Kett, turning back to the camera.

“Yeah,” said Darcey. “All night.”

Kett was tempted to keep pushing them, but he’d clicked through to the next photograph, and what he saw there paralysed him. The shot was a close-up of a man’s arm, showing tense muscles and prominent veins.

Tattooed there, stretching from the wrist all the way up to the elbow, was a skull, its teeth sharpened into fangs. The burning eyes were almost hidden by a black hood.

“Holy shit,” said Kett, his knees crunching into the desk as he stood up. He turned the camera so that Simon could see the viewscreen. “This you?”

“You shitting me?” the young man replied, holding up a scrawny arm. There were more tattoos there, but not these.

“Who was it? Someone at the wedding?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The big guy. Angry. The one who wouldn’t let anyone leave until he’d been paid.”

“The DJ?” said Kett.

Simon nodded.

“He rolled up his sleeves and I saw that thing, thought it was cool.”

Kett rushed through the last few images, but the reel ended shortly afterwards: a shot of Norman Balls in his bonnet, of all things, as red-faced and teary-eyed as a newborn baby. He ran back through them, all the way to the start. The first shot was Kathryn on the lane.

“You got any more pictures of him?” asked Kett. “Anything from before this?”

“No,” said Simon. “I only just finished setting everything up when that woman arrived. Who is he? Is he the guy? Did I manage to get a photograph of the killer?”

The pound signs were almost flashing in his eyes. Darcey leaned in to look, still furious. Kett slung the heavy camera over his neck, then he picked up the second camera and the laptop.

“The only thing you’ve managed to do is slow us down,” said Kett. “If you’d sent these to us yesterday, a policeman might not have been attacked. My friend might not be in surgery right now, fighting for his life.”

Simon gulped for breath, shaking his head.

“You can’t take them,” he said. “They’re mine.”

“I can do what I want,” said Kett, parroting the guy’s own words. “It’s not illegal, just try and stop me.”

He walked to the front door, looking back.

“Darcey, you’re right, I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “But I’ve got three girls at home, and if any of them were standing where you are, I’d give them the same advice.”

Darcey stared at him from the shadows, Simon looming over her shoulder.

“Ditch this dickhead. You can do so much better.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

By the time Kett reached the DJ’s house on the west side of the city, Porter’s Mondeo was parked outside. There was no sign of the DI, so Kett made his way to the front gate. The house was a detached new build that considered itself grander than it actually was. It stood proudly in a garden that was overflowing with red and white roses, the smell of them divine. The privet hedge was so neatly trimmed that Kett wasn’t sure it was real. Set against the pink morning sky, the house belonged on the front of a jigsaw box.

It certainly didn’t look like it belonged to an angry man in his forties who had skulls tattooed on his arm.

And who might be one of the worst serial killers the country had ever seen.

“This can’t be right,” he said to the PCs who had followed him across the street. One of them was Niven, whose hand hadn’t left her holstered baton. He searched his phone, finding the address.

“Want me to double-check, sir?” asked Niven.

There was no need. Kett heard a scuff of footsteps from the side of the house, a string of quiet curses, then Porter squeezed out of the gap. The DI had to hold his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun before he saw Kett standing there.

“Sir?”

“Pete,” said Kett, walking through the gate. “This definitely the place?”

“Yeah,” said Porter, joining him in the garden. He played with the petals of a rose while he spoke. “Makes more sense when you find out he’s living with his mother. Nobody home, can’t see anyone inside. You really think this is our guy?”

He had thought it, on the drive over. Now, though, his confidence was dwindling.

“He’s a big man,” said Kett, trying to stoke the embers of his suspicion into a flame. “Tall, broad, matches the description of the attacker in the church. And he has this on his arm.”

He passed his phone to Porter, who angled it one way and then the other to try to make sense of the sun-bleached screen.

“Grim Reaper?” he said.

“Kind of. Skull with a hood. Fiery eyes.”

Porter handed the phone back.

“If I had a quid for every time I’d seen a skull tattoo on some fat bloke’s arm, I’d have…” He cocked his head. “Well, like thirty quid, but they’re pretty popular, especially with DJs, musicians. He looked like an old-school rocker, with that hair.”

“That’s another thing,” said Kett. “The music that was playing in the church, when we found Lina. Heavy metal. A DJ would know how to rig up speakers like the ones we found, and… Shit, he was carrying cables yesterday, at the wedding. Massive coil of them, like the ones in the murder room.”

“The barn that Kate and Clare found was rigged up the same way,” said Porter. “Cables, lights, speakers. They’d hacked into the electricity, tampered with the fuse board. Kate say anything about the DJ?”

“Only that Aaron found him,” said Kett. “Saw him at another wedding or something. But this is adding up, Pete. It could be him.”

“Except he was already at the wedding when Kathryn got dumped on the track. He can’t have been the one driving the van.”

“So he’s not working alone,” said Kett. “He’s got an accomplice.”

Porter didn’t look sure, plucking a petal from the rose and rolling it into dust between his fingers.

“This killer, the Reaper, he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who works well with others,” he said. “Kate’s not here, but I know exactly what she’d say. He’s a loner, he’s too lost in his own, you know…” He whirled his hands around his head. “Madness, to ask for help. He’s Death. With a capital D. Death works alone.”

Kett nodded, the fire fizzling out like somebody had thrown water on it.

“Worth a check anyway?” he said, nodding to the house.

“Can’t do any harm,” said Porter. “I could be wrong. Guy really was an arsehole. Asked him if he’d play some Kenny G at the wedding and he told me to piss off.”

“That doesn’t really qualify him as an arsehole, Pete,” said Kett. “I’d have said the same thing.”

He turned to the constables, who waited by the gate.

“Got an enforcer?”

PC Niven legged it back to the IRV, opening the boot. She ran back empty handed.

“Got a fire extinguisher, a bundle of cordon tape, a first aid kit with one bandage in it, and a water bottle that looks like it’s been there for a couple of years.”

“Useful,” said Kett. “The old-fashioned way, then?”

“The old-fashioned way,” said Porter. “Back door’s better.”

Kett followed him around the side of the house, squeezing down the narrow passage into a back garden that was a poor companion to the front. The grass hadn’t been mown or watered in weeks, more brown than green, and the flowerbeds were clogged with weeds and little else. Only the conifer trees at the back looked healthy, casting everything else into shade and sucking every last drop of moisture from the ground.

“Fur coat, no knickers,” said Porter as they walked to the door.

“What?”

“Posh at the front, shit at the back,” he said. “You speak to Spalding, by the way?”

“Uh, when?” said Kett, who was struggling to remember the conversation he was having right now, let alone anything else.

“About an hour ago,” said Porter. “She said she was going to call you. She interviewed the girl and the guy we found at the chapel, the ones throwing fireworks.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Kett. “You thought he might be the killer? Might have been holding her there?”

“I was wrong, on both counts,” said Porter. “The guy with the beard was only nineteen, he just looked older. He’s got pretty severe learning difficulties. The girl’s his sister, couple of years younger. Both runaways from a group home in Dereham. She’d nicked the bangers from that firework place out on the A47, the all-year one. Was hoping to make some money.”

“Shit,” said Kett. “They alright?”

“They will be,” said Porter. “Safer now than they would be squatting in some ruin somewhere, especially with the Reaper about. Kid’s lucky the AFOs didn’t put him down, he was carrying a toy gun. I thought the bloody thing was real, thought he’d shot Duke.”

“Shit,” Kett said again. “Some night.”

“Some night,” said Porter. He turned to the house. “On three?”

Kett nodded, and Porter counted down. They rushed the door together, his trainer landing right beneath the handle, Porter’s mud-caked Cleverley hitting it right in the middle. The door stayed in place, but the bottom panel pinged out, skittering over a stone floor.

“Oh,” said Porter, leaning down. “Never had that happen before.”

“You’ll fit,” said Kett, massaging his aching back. “In you go.”

“Can’t Flick do it?” said Porter, nodding to the two constables who’d followed them. “She’s tiny.”

“Lead by example,” said Kett.

“You lead by ex⁠—”

“Just get in the bloody house, Pete,” snapped Kett.

Porter crawled through the gap like a cat entering a flap, grumbling. Kett heard a key turning, and a moment later the door opened. He walked into a neat little kitchen, the units pink, roses hand-painted on the tiles. Yellow blinds diffused the dusty sunlight, making it thick enough to swim in. Niven followed, then the other PC, a Taser gripped in both hands.

“Police,” Kett yelled. “We’re inside the house. If you’re here, let us know.”

He turned to Porter.

“I don’t even know his name,” he said.

“Marvin the Magnificent,” said Porter. “Although that’s his DJ name.”

“What’s his real name? Marvin?”

“Greg,” said Porter.

“Right,” said Kett. He waited for the constables to advance into the house, then he called out again. “Greg, if you’re here, let us know.”

“Or Greg’s mum,” added Porter, muttering: “unless you’ve been taxidermized or something.”

The house wasn’t big, and it was clearly empty. Kett waited for the Uniforms to clear it before heading upstairs. Greg’s room wasn’t hard to find, mainly because he’d written ‘Greg’s Room’ on a sheet of A4 paper, along with a handful of crudely drawn skulls, and tacked it to his door.

“How old is this guy again?” asked Kett.

“Forty-four,” said Porter. “But he’s a DJ, so, you know…”

He didn’t finish, and Kett didn’t ask him to elaborate. The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. No roses here, just skulls, maybe fifty of them arranged on the shelves that covered the left-hand side of the room. Between them were hundreds of records. Thousands, maybe. Posters clung to the wall, the corners peeling. They were all for bands, ranging from the skeletal faces of Iron Maiden to a damp Morrissey singing in the rain. Greg had set up his DJ deck near the window, complete with lights. A gold disco ball hung over the entire thing, reflecting spots of daylight onto the walls and the floor and Porter’s face.

The rumpled bedding, which looked like it hadn’t been washed in a long, long time, had the Led Zeppelin logo splashed over it. The smell of the sheets did a good job of washing the fragrance of the roses from Kett’s sinuses.

“Shit,” he said. “It’s not him, is it?”

“This guy is one hundred per cent not cool enough to be a serial killer,” said Porter as he walked to the desk. “Although…”

He carefully lifted a CD by the edges, holding it up. Kett had to walk a little closer before he could make out the big writing.

“Until Death,” he read.

“That’s something,” said Porter.

“Maybe,” said Kett. “Maybe that’s what he calls his wedding mix.”

“They’re all called that,” said Porter, dropping the disc back. “He’s obsessed.”

“Bag them,” said Kett, heading for the door. “I’ll call Cara, ask her to stop by. Anyone got eyes on him?”

“I’ll check,” said Porter. “Who took the picture of the tattoo? The photographer from yesterday?”

“Yeah,” said Kett as they made their way down the stairs.

“You like him for it?”

“No. Simon’s shorter than me, skinny as anything. Spoke to the girl he was in bed with when I arrived, and she says he was with her all night. He was at the wedding, too, and if he was a killer, I doubt he’d send photos of it to the papers.”

They made their way through the kitchen to the back door, the heat pouring through from outside.

“Don’t get me wrong, the creep deserves to be behind bars, but not for this. I’ll call Clare, you…”

The words dried in his throat, his heart jumping like somebody had tapped it with a chisel. He’d managed to forget, and the horror of the Superintendent’s injuries hit him all over again.

“Shit,” he said.

“Done it myself about ten times already this morning, sir,” said Porter, clapping him on the shoulder. “You alright?”

Kett nodded, wiping a hand over his dry lips. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m not even close to being alright, Pete.”

Outside the back door, a police radio chirruped.

“Go ahead,” said Niven, listening to the chatter.

Kett walked out, wincing as the sun smacked him in the face. The temperature seemed to have doubled in the time they’d been in the house.

“Repeat,” said Niven, one hand to her radio. The reply came through as a hissing, garbled mess, but somehow she made sense of it. “Trouble at the train station,” she told Kett. “Calling for any available units.”

“What kind of trouble?” he asked.

“Big guy, acting erratically, and bleeding.”

Kett glanced at Porter.

“Sounds like every day at the station,” said the DI. “But a big guy? Bleeding? Bit of a coincidence.”

He shrugged.

“Worth checking out?”

“Maybe,” said Kett, rubbing his eyes again. “Surely not, though? He’s not going to have spent all night running away from the police only to turn up in the middle of the city.”

“Too injured to drive,” said Porter. “Maybe he’s getting the train.”

Kett shook his head, but only for a second.

“If there’s any chance this is our killer, we can’t spook him,” he said. “We need him alive.”

He glanced at his watch, then got his bearings.

“We’re five minutes away, if we move fast,” he said, heading for the side of the house. “Flick, get on the radio, tell control that nobody goes near him. We keep our distance until we’re sure.”

They ran across the front garden, Porter unlocking the Mondeo as he went. The DI did a five-point turn, waiting for the IRV to overtake them. It had its lights on, and as it accelerated up the street the siren pealed out.

“What didn’t they understand about not spooking him?” said Kett.

The Mondeo’s big engine growled as they chased after the police car, traffic giving way. It was still early, the city relatively clear, and it was only eight minutes after they left the house that Kett spotted the Victorian dome of the station rising over the houses. The driver of the IRV killed the siren, pulling onto the kerb a little way up the street. Porter thumped the Mondeo up behind them. The sun streamed through the dirty windscreen, making it opaque.

“What’s the plan, sir?” said Porter.

“I am far too tired to make a plan, Pete,” said Kett.

He climbed out of the car, meeting the constables by the IRV.

“Hold back, but stay alert,” he told them. “Chances are this is somebody still drunk from last night, in which case, he’s all yours.”

“Thanks?” said Niven, pulling a face.

Kett set off, then whirled around.

“Give me your radio,” he said.

Niven didn’t look sure, but she unclipped it and handed it over. Kett silenced it before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. He started walking, then turned back again.

“Maybe your baton, too,” he said.

“You want my shirt and all, sir?” said Niven, but she dutifully handed it over.

He pocketed it as he walked off, Porter right beside him, their footsteps echoing off the surrounding buildings. He cut through the open gate into the busy car park of Norwich station, the sun a physical force on the top of his head, like it was trying to push him back.

There were a handful of people outside the main doors, some of them staring into the terminal like they were waiting for orders. A couple of young men watched their phones. Somewhere close by, another police car was on the way, or maybe an ambulance, the siren travelling effortlessly in the summer air.

Kett walked into the shade of the station concourse, taking a moment to blink the poisonous sun from his eyes. It was quiet in here, a handful of people on the benches, a few more in line outside the Starbucks kiosk. A huddle of train staff in hi-vis vests stood around the customer service stand, talking loudly, and he headed for them. They turned when they heard him coming, frowns on their faces. It took Kett a moment to remember that he probably looked more like a madman himself than a copper.

“Police,” he said, holding up the warrant card. “What’s going on?”

“You’re police?” said one man, resting his hands on his pot belly and staring at Kett’s trainers. “Both of you?”

Porter chuffed up, sweating. His suit was almost green from the forest, his shoes caked in filth. With the poor excuse for a beard smeared over his chin and his cheeks, he looked even crazier than Kett.

“What’s happening?” asked Kett.

The railway staff turned as one, nodding deeper into the station. Four trains sat along the platforms, gleaming. People were coming and going, but not many.

“Some bloke,” said the pot belly guy. “Turned up on the Lowestoft train about twenty minutes ago, came to the gate in a bit of panic, couldn’t get through. He walked up there.”

“Covered in blood, he was,” said an older woman with bleached blonde hair. “Couldn’t walk very well. Looked mad, didn’t he, Derek?”

“Mad,” said the man. “Couple of us tried to talk to him, but I don’t even know if he’s English. Didn’t seem to understand a thing. Just walked off.”

“What does he look like?” asked Porter. “Big, right?”

“Ha,” said the woman. “Understatement, much? He’s massive. Like a public toilet.”

“She means brick shithouse,” said Derek. “And she’s not wrong.”

“What’s he wearing? A cloak?”

“Cloak?” said the man. “Jeans, weren’t it? Blue shirt?”

Kett caught Porter’s eye, reading his thoughts.

It’s not him.

“You’re the ones who called the police?” Kett asked the man.

“Wasn’t gonna,” said Derek. “Used to that sort of thing around here. But there in’t usually so much blood, is there? Stella called them, didn’t you.”

“I did,” said the woman. “He alright, you think?”

Kett didn’t answer, heading for the gate.

“Which platform was he heading for?” he shouted back.

“Five,” said the woman. “Sheringham line. Got a train departing in…”

She checked her watch.

“Three minutes.”

“Hold it,” said Kett. “Hold all of them. No announcements. And get everyone out of the station.”

“Who is he?” said Stella, her face wrinkling with panic. “Not a terrorist, is he?”

The automatic gate clattered open and Kett walked through, Porter right behind him.

“You weren’t lying, sir,” said the DI.

“Huh?”

“This isn’t much of a plan.”

They rounded an advertising hoarding, seeing a couple of empty platforms ahead. There was only one train on this line, three older-style carriages with manually opening doors. The illuminated board listed a handful of stations before it reached Sheringham.

Kett hesitated, trying to work out what to do.

“If this is him, he can’t drive, right?” he said.

Porter shook his head.

“So he’s taking the train to his next victim. His barn was out near Belton. If he wants to go north, he has to come through Norwich, change trains.”

“Maybe, sir,” said Porter. “Although that doesn’t make any sense, if he’s injured. He must know somebody will see him.”

“But he’s desperate. Like Kate says, he needs to end this.”

Kett looked at his watch. Two minutes until the train was due to depart. He pulled the radio from his pocket, pressing the button.

“Control, this is DCI Kett. I’m at the station, possible sighting of…”

He hesitated, because he didn’t know if the name was official. In the end, he went with it.

“Of the Reaper, Clare’s attacker. Suspect has boarded the Sheringham train. We need officers heading north, Salhouse, Wroxham, North Walsham, Cromer. Wait for orders, and stand down in the city.”

“Stand down?” said Porter.

“If he’s going to his victims, we can follow him,” said Kett. “He’ll lead us right to them.”

Porter thought about it for a second, then nodded.

“Tell them to let the train go, Pete,” said Kett. “Meet me on board.”

“This is insane, sir,” said Porter, but he jogged back to the gates anyway, scattering pigeons as he went.

Kett kept walking, reaching the back carriage of the train. He turned the stubborn handle, climbing into the antiquated interior.

There were fewer than a dozen people here, none of them tall enough or bloody enough to be the killer. A family sat at the nearest table, a man and a woman and two little kids who were bouncing in their seats with excitement. A couple of women in their sixties sat opposite each other further down, a bottle of wine already open between them even though it wasn’t long past dawn. Three teenagers occupied the far end, one girl sitting on the table with what looked like a vape pen clutched in her hand.

Kett cleared his throat, holding up his warrant card.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m going to need your attention.”

Every single person stared at him, suddenly quiet.

“I’m police, and I’m going to need you all to get off the train. Quickly, but quietly. Understood? No fuss, just go.”

Nobody moved.

“Now,” he said, a little louder. “You do not want to be onboard when this train leaves.”

The older women moved first, gathering their bags and trotting past him. The mum scooped her kids off their seats, ushering them to the exit, the dad making a phone call as he followed, all of them giving Kett a look like he’d ruined their day. The teenagers were doing their best not to show their panic, but they still moved fast, only breaking into laughter when they were safely outside. Kett watched them through the dirty window, seeing Porter on his way back, heading along the platform.

Kett hurried down the narrow aisle, opening the door between the carriages and stepping through. There were more people in the middle one, but still nobody that matched the description of the killer. Kett didn’t bother calling out this time, he made his way slowly to the first occupied seat, his warrant card in his hand.

“Off the train, now,” he said to the middle-aged man who sat there.

The guy looked for a second like he might be about to argue, but then he saw Kett’s expression and changed his mind. The younger man in the seat opposite didn’t even need to be told. He grabbed his bag and ran for the exit, his feet thumping.

Too much noise, thought Kett.

But he kept going, working his way up the train until all fifteen people had bolted. When he reached the next door and looked through the filthy window, he spotted Porter taking a seat. The DI was one of maybe twenty people inside the final carriage, and he hooked a thumb back and nodded, his face serious.

He’s here.

He was. Even though he was sitting at the far end of the carriage, and facing the other way, Kett didn’t doubt for a second that this was their man. He was so tall that his head almost hit the overhead luggage rack, his pink, sweat-drenched scalp shaved to the bone and covered in painful looking nicks. His broad shoulders took up both seats, and one was stained with blood, almost black against his dark blue shirt.

There was no way of evacuating this carriage without drawing attention to it. Either they called in the PCs outside and rushed him, or they left him alone.

Kett looked at his watch again. No time.

There was a crunch from behind him as the guard closed the train door.

A whistle from the platform.

Kett didn’t know if he’d made the right call or not, but there was no going back. This was their only shot, their only chance of finding Marla, and anyone else that the Reaper had hidden.

He just had to hope they’d got the right man.

With a jolt and a judder, the train began to move.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kett opened the door, moving into the front carriage of the train. It was picking up speed fast, Norwich rolling past the window: Riverside, the yards, the hulking box of the football stadium. He glanced at Porter as he passed him, the DI tense in his seat. His jaw was set, his eyes dark.

The carriage was busy, maybe ten kids in Scouts uniforms occupying the tables in the middle and all trying to out-shout one another. Two men in matching outfits watched over them, already harried into sweaty messes. A young couple were mid argument further down, and past them a solitary older man in a tan suit read his paper.

They were all oblivious to the evil that travelled with them.

Kett passed them all, taking a seat four rows behind the suspect, facing the back of his head. He tapped his pocket, feeling the baton there. Then he pulled out his phone, taking a photo and texting it to Savage.

Head shaved, injured, massive. On the Sheringham train. You think this could be our Reaper?

He sent it, but it didn’t deliver. She was almost certainly still in the hospital, he realised. No signal.

His phone buzzed. A text from Porter: Any ideas??

Play it cool, he replied, resting the phone on the seat beside him. He focussed on the man’s head, leaning out to close the gap between them. It sounded like he was talking to himself, but Kett couldn’t make out any words.

He locked his breath in his lungs, stretching further into the aisle. He could smell him from back here, the stench of an unemptied bin in the middle of summer. The guy wasn’t talking, he was groaning. The awful sound of somebody close to death. The suspect shifted in his seat, something dripping to the floor by his filthy trainers. He was still bleeding.

The speakers chimed, a voice crackling through the static.

“Welcome to this 07:15 Greater Anglia service to Sheringham,” said a man. “Calling at, uh…”

He knows, thought Kett. He could hear the fear in his voice.

“Salhouse, Hoveton and Wroxham, Worstead, uh, North Walsham.”

The announcement tailed out, and the suspect’s head started to turn. Kett ducked behind the seat in front, his heart machine-gunning. He checked the baton again, knowing it would be as useful as a toothpick if the giant kicked off.

“Gunton,” said the conductor, “then Roughton, Cromer, West Runton, and arriving in Sheringham at 08:15. Please, uh…”

The Tannoy clicked off, and the man didn’t come back on. The train thundered forwards, beating its way along the track. The shining expanse of Whitlingham Broad was on the right, joggers, dog walkers, families with their kids.

It was a world he didn’t feel part of any more.

Kett leaned into the aisle again, seeing the back of the man’s head. The sweat was literally rolling off him, and he was still making those awful noises, guttural moans that sounded more animal than human.

Somebody punched past Kett’s shoulder and he almost screamed. It was one of the Scouts, heading towards the front of the carriage where the man was sitting. Kett almost called out to him, but the Scout leader beat him to it.

“The other way, Ben. They’re behind us. And be quick, you only just went.”

He couldn’t have been older than ten, and he swung around dramatically, slouching back the way he’d come. Kett drew back to let him pass, and the kid gave him a once over as he went, his nose crinkling. He walked past his group, reaching the other end of the carriage and vanishing into the toilet.

Porter was there, looking back. He met Kett’s eye, the question clear enough even without words.

What now?

Kett’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up to see that Savage had replied.

Could be, sir. Injury’s in the place where Paxton shot him. Be careful. Even if he’s wounded, he’s strong. He won’t hesitate. You got backup?

He fired a message back—I’ve got Pete—realising how insanely vulnerable they were here, if the man realised who they were.

How vulnerable everyone on the carriage was.

He’s heading somewhere on this line, he wrote, his sweaty hands making it difficult to type. Cross-check with Karen’s list, he has to be heading to a victim.

He swore, rubbing his face, watching the world roll by through the graffiti-etched window. The train was an old one, the thunder of its wheels on the track deafening, but in the lulls he could still hear the noises coming from the suspect. They seemed to be getting louder, more urgent. When he leaned out again, he saw that the man had shifted his position, his hand resting on the armrest. There was blood all over it, droplets raining from his fingertips.

He didn’t have long.

Which meant they didn’t have long.

Where are you going? he thought. Show us where they are.

It was as if he’d spoken the words aloud, as if the suspect had heard the words inside his skull. The man twisted his head around, staring over the top of the seats.

Finding Kett instantly.

Recognising him.

“Shit,” said Kett.

The guy slid out clumsily from the table, rising to his full height, tall enough that he had to stoop or risk hitting the ceiling. He was enormous, his barrel chest heaving through his shirt, his neck thick with tendons. His face was as closely shaven as his head, his fat lips damp with saliva. His small eyes were dark and dull, no spark in them at all. He stared at Kett, a whining noise rising in his throat like a kettle coming to boil.

“Shit,” Kett said again.

He stood up, cracking his head on the overhead luggage rack. The Scouts must have noticed the blood drenched giant at the front of the carriage, because they were screaming, the two pack leaders shouting for them to move. Kett didn’t dare glance back because he didn’t want to give the guy any excuse to come at him.

“Easy,” he said, speaking slowly, like he was trying to calm a bear. “Let’s talk about this.”

The Reaper—because there was no doubt who it was, not now—stared at Kett, his enormous hands gripping the back of the seats on either side of the aisle like he meant to pull them free and use them as weapons. It was easy to see how he’d sliced off Clare’s arm as easily as he had. He looked freakishly strong.

“Everybody out,” yelled Kett. “Everybody move back.”

The carriage was suddenly flooded with shouts, people panicking. Kett kept his eyes on the Reaper, holding his hands up.

“Right here, sir,” said Porter behind him.

“You’re hurt,” Kett told the man. “Let us help you.”

“It’s too late,” the Reaper replied. His voice was surprisingly high, his accent well spoken. “It’s too late.”

“It’s not,” said Kett. “Come with us, come quietly, and we can fix this.”

The train rocked wildly as it hammered through the countryside.

“All you need to do is tell us where they are,” Kett went on. “Tell us where you’re keeping the men and women you took.”

The Reaper put his hands to his ears, shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “I won’t. The dead must not wake. They mustn’t wake. They mustn’t wake, mustn’t wake, mustn’t wake.”

He kept saying it, swinging his head from side to side.

“Hey,” said Kett, clicking his fingers. “That’s enough.”

The train juddered, a whip crack of movement that almost sent Kett spilling into the seat. He clung to the back of the chair, wondering whether to pull the emergency brake. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that everyone had left the carriage, a crowd of frightened faces visible through the door. Only Porter remained, standing three rows back, his phone to his ear. He’d pulled the glass-breaker hammer from the cradle and was holding it like a weapon. It didn’t look particularly reassuring.

The Reaper dropped his hands onto the back of the chairs again, a spray of blood from the cuff of his shirt hitting the upholstery. He was still shaking his head.

“Tell us where they are,” said Kett. “That’s all we want.”

“You can’t help them,” the man replied. “Only I can send them back.”

“You don’t need to send them back,” said Kett. “Nobody does.”

“I do!” he shouted, his voice deeper. He thumped a fist to his chest, wincing. “I do, or they won’t move on, they won’t ever find peace. They want to go.”

His sagging face warped into an expression of pure grief.

“I’m not hurting them, I’m saving them. You know that better than anyone.”

“Me?” said Kett, fighting to make himself heard over the roar of the train. “How do you know who I am?”

“You understand death,” said the Reaper, bubbles of pink blood exploding on his lips. “You know the inevitability of it. I watched you, when you were on the television. The case with the boy who died. You spoke about his father, how he’d tried to send people to watch over him, wherever he ended up next.”

Kett remembered the press conferences he’d given after the Tin Soldiers case, where he’d tried to find rhyme and reason for the crimes of a madman. It hadn’t made any sense, of course, not in any rational world. But getting into the killer’s head, trying to see it from his point of view, had made the tragedy of those deaths a little easier to bear. Clare had torn strips out of him afterwards for even mentioning it, for giving any kind of credence to Reece’s delusions.

But the truth was, Kett had believed it. For a little while, ground down by the grief and the horror and the exhaustion of the case, he’d believed it; because there was a chance he’d have done the same thing, if it had been one of his girls.

The Reaper glanced warily at Porter before turning his attention to Kett again.

“I saw the way you talked about him,” he said, those high-pitched words sounding alien from his throat, as if he’d stolen somebody else’s voice. “I saw that you understood the truth of it, of what was happening. So I came to you, the same way you came to me.”

“Wait,” said Kett, trying to wrap his mind around what the man was saying. “Yesterday? The wedding? You came to the church because we were there?”

The man nodded. He was struggling, the blood dripping freely from the cuff of his shirt. He’d paled even in the time they’d been standing there, the sweat gathering in the hollows of his eyes.

“Why?” said Kett. “Why bring Kathryn to us?”

The Reaper closed his eyes, emitting another low, awful groan. For a split second, Kett almost went for him, his hand on the baton in his pocket. But he’d have needed a bulldozer to get him on the floor, and that still wouldn’t solve their problem. Because if something happened to the suspect, if he died here, then they’d never find his victims. They’d never find Marla.

He had to play it cool. He had to get inside the man’s head.

He’s a visionary killer, Savage had said. He’s psychotic, delusional, driven by the belief that he has a job to do, a duty.

This was as real to him as anything else, but the cracks were starting to show.

“It’s because you’re having doubts, isn’t it?” he said. “Kathryn wouldn’t die the way she was supposed to. She fought, and she escaped. So, what? She wasn’t one of the ones you needed to send back?”

The man’s face opened up, those piggy eyes widening, his expression almost rapturous.

“You do understand,” he said.

“That’s good,” said Kett. “That’s good, you did the right thing, bringing her to us. What’s your name?”

“I have no name,” he said. “Death has no name.”

“Well, you were right,” said Kett, trying to step inside the man’s fantasy. “They don’t all have to die. Some of them, uh, some of them are like Kathryn. They aren’t supposed to go back to sleep. Not yet.”

He was making it up as he went, and the Reaper seemed to know it, his brow crumpling.

“Tell us where to find them. Better than that, take me there. I do understand, I can help you. But I have to see them. If they’re ready to go, I’ll help you finish it myself. Can we do that?”

The man stared at Kett like he was trying to find the truth in his words. And for a moment, it looked like he might agree to it.

Then the train hit a curve in the track, going too fast, everything lurching to the left. The man crunched into the table, howling with pain. He was too big to stop himself falling, sliding into the gap between the seats.

Porter pushed past Kett, rushing at him.

“Stay down!” he yelled.

“Pete, wait!”

The Reaper pulled himself free before Porter could reach him. His face was crimson, his body trembling with the effort of standing up. He stared at his hand, the blood still pouring from his cuff. Then he turned his bulging eyes to Kett.

“I am Death,” he said, his small, white teeth bared.

He reached for something on his seat, lifting it.

Not a scythe, this time, but not far off, either. A sickle, catching the low sun through the window, a spear of light that blinded Kett for an instant.

“Drop it!” shouted Porter, lifting his little hammer.

The Reaper lunged, the blade sweeping towards Porter’s throat. The DI sprawled back, bouncing off a seat, one hand to his neck.

Kett grabbed the emergency alarm and wrenched it as hard as he could, grabbing the seat just in time as the brakes kicked in. A hellish chorus of squeals filled the air, everything lurching towards the front of the carriage. The Reaper staggered, fighting to keep his balance. He grabbed at a seat back, crying out in pain. He couldn’t hold on, his shoulder was too weak, and there was too much blood.

But he stayed upright, the sickle still in his good hand. He swept it back and forth until the train had come to a standstill. His eyes kept rolling up in their sockets, one corner of his mouth drooling.

He was on the verge of death.

“Wait,” said Kett. He glanced at Porter, seeing that he was okay. “Just put it down. Let us help you.”

“Too late,” said the Reaper, little more than a mumble. “The dead must not wake.”

He retreated, stumbling through the door into the vestibule.

“I have to…” he groaned. “I have to.”

Kett moved closer, but that blade looked sharp. It would cut through the meat of his throat without hesitation. The man held it out with his good hand, somehow fumbling the window down with the other one. Warm air rushed in, and the sound of the birds. The man seemed to hear it, his face quivering into a smile.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”

“Where?” said Kett. “Look, wherever you need to be, we can take you. Just put down the weapon.”

The Reaper did as he was asked, the sickle bouncing off the carpeted floor.

Kett ran at him, Porter right behind him. But they weren’t close enough. They weren’t fast enough.

The man leaned out of the window, he turned the handle. The door swung open, and he fell out of it like a sack of meat.

“Shit!” said Kett. “Pete, hurry!”

Kett ran to the door, seeing the Reaper on the ground, half on and half off the other set of tracks—still alive. He managed to roll onto his back, a smile on his face.

“Don’t… wake me,” he said.

Kett grabbed the door, ready to jump. Only Porter’s hand stopped him, gripping the back of his jacket so hard that it rooted him in place.

A deafening horn, then a rush of movement as a train blasted past in the opposite direction.

Kett fell back, landing hard on Porter, the DI holding him tight. A shriek of brakes and the rattle of the tracks almost deafened him, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the impact, the thump of metal hitting flesh.

In less than two seconds, it was over. Kett didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He scooted back against Porter, pulling his knees up, feeling like a child who’s woken from a nightmare only to discover that it was real.

“Fucking hell,” said Porter, his quiet voice right in Kett’s ear.

The door to the cab opened, the driver lumbering out.

“What happened?” he wheezed, stepping over Kett so he could lean out of the door. His next words were almost a scream. “Jesus Christ! What did you do to him?”

He ran back to his cab, gagging. Kett heard him speaking on the radio. Porter was talking too, back on his feet and shouting into the phone.

“We’ve got a man down on the Sheringham line, we’re just outside the city. I think I can see the Rackheath estate. Hurry.”

There was no point in hurrying. Nothing would bring the man back, not from that. They hadn’t pushed him out of the train, but there was no doubt in Kett’s mind that they’d killed him.

And they’d killed his victims, too. Without the Reaper, the chance of finding Marla alive was close to zero.

“What now, sir?” said Porter, still holding the phone to his ear. He looked a hundred years old. “What do we do?”

Nothing, thought Kett, pulling his knees up even further, wrapping his hands over his head, sinking into himself. We’ve lost. It’s over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Even with the full force of the sun on him, Kett felt bitterly cold.

He sat on a grassy bank, twenty yards or so away from the motionless train. Behind him, a line of rubbernecking houses crowded the tall hedges, trying to work out what was going on. Past the train, on the other side of the tracks, fields basked in the August heat. The sky was full of rooks, the hot air carrying their choked, hungry cries. There was something ominous in their sudden arrival.

They were harbingers of death, after all.

They weren’t getting anywhere near the feast that had been left for them on the line. Two dozen uniformed constables had gathered between the Sheringham train and the Norwich-bound one that had killed their suspect. The second train had travelled a surprisingly long distance after the brakes had been engaged, the back end of it so far away that Kett couldn’t make out many details.

What was left of the man who had attacked Clare, the monster who’d killed so many people—the Reaper, as he would probably always be known—was smeared along the tracks between them.

It was impossible to feel sorry for him. He might have been delusional, but he’d left a trail of death and destruction behind him the likes of which Kett had never seen, not since the heyday of Hollenbeck, anyway. They knew of at least six people dead at his hands, three more injured past the point where they might ever recover. But the final tally would be so much higher.

And there was every chance that Clare would count as one of his dead. The Superintendent was still in surgery, no word from Savage, or his wife, Fiona, or any of the doctors.

Porter stood by the Sheringham train, speaking with the driver and another couple of detectives. The civilians on board had all been evacuated, driven back to the city on buses. But dozens of railway staff had taken their place, their hi-vis vests so bright that they were giving Kett a headache. They’d formed a perimeter around the driver, reassuring him with back claps and quiet words. They kept looking up the slope to where Kett sat, as if they blamed him for what had happened.

They weren’t exactly wrong.

He didn’t know how he could have been so stupid. It had seemed like the right thing to do, following the Reaper to where he kept his victims. It had seemed right. But it had been far too risky. Anyone with any sense would have picked up on the fact that Kett and Porter were police, even with their battered clothes, and it hadn’t even occurred to him that the man would know who he was.

They should have played it safe. Should have rushed the train and arrested the Reaper. He might have broken under interrogation.

If he’d survived his gunshot, that was.

“You’re an idiot, Robbie,” he told himself.

It was the people that the Reaper had taken who would pay the price. Marla, if she was still alive, and God only knew how many more. The thought of them hanging from the wall, stitches through their skin, screaming for help that would never come, made Kett want to throw himself under the next train that came along.

He closed his eyes, trying to rub away the fireworks that exploded against the dark. He was just so tired, the events of the weekend like a sledgehammer to his brain. He could barely think straight.

Too tired. Too old. Too reckless.

Time to go, he thought.

He opened his eyes when he heard footsteps, seeing Porter struggling up the slope. He was scratching at his face like he was trying to erase all evidence of his beard.

“Everything alright?” asked Kett.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just itches like a bastard. I’ve tried creams, lotions, all sorts. Can’t get it to stop. Don’t know how Duke put up with that camel’s bush around his…”

He saw the way Kett was looking at him.

“Oh, you mean down there?” He shook his head. “Proper minging, sir. Train dragged him all the way. Half of him has literally disintegrated, other half is jammed under the wheels.”

Kett belched into his hand, trying not to picture it.

“Deserved it,” said Porter, looking at the second train. “World’s a better place without him in it.”

“Not for the people he’s taken, it isn’t,” he said. “Any clue who he is?”

“No,” said Porter, still scratching. “They’re looking for ID now, a phone or something. But… Well, they don’t know where his legs are.”

“Christ,” muttered Kett, feeling the gorge climb his throat.

“Rail staff have checked their CCTV,” Porter went on. “The guy got on the train at Reedham. Barely makes it, has to leg it down the platform. Train was empty, conductor claims he didn’t ask him for a ticket, figured he was homeless and didn’t want the hassle. Thought he’d let the Norwich station staff handle it. Apparently, he didn’t notice the blood.”

“That was a lot of blood not to notice,” said Kett.

“Yeah, but the PC who spoke to him said he could have got drunk off the conductor’s breath. Guy was either on a bender last night, or he likes whisky for breakfast. Anyway, the killer doesn’t need a ticket to get through the gate at Norwich, because he’s getting on another train. Makes his way around to the next platform, and that’s where we joined him.”

“No sign of where he came from before Reedham?” said Kett. “That’s got to be four or five miles from the barn where he was shot. You think he walked it?”

“With a hole in his shoulder?” said Porter. He puffed out a breath. “Maybe. He’s obsessed with this idea that he’s Death. He’s got a duty. That kind of conviction gives you a different kind of strength, right?”

“You didn’t find anything else on the train?” asked Kett.

“Nope. Just the sickle, which he was carrying in an Asda bag. Which is weird in itself, isn’t it?”

Kett stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Just figured Death would shop in Waitrose.”

Neither of them laughed. But it did make Kett think of something.

“What did you make of him, Pete? His voice? Because I wasn’t expecting that.”

“The accent?” said Porter. “Yeah. Sounded well off, educated. What were you expecting? Serial killers often fall into that category. Privileged, spoiled, well off enough to fund their habit, educated enough to hide it.”

“I know,” said Kett, adjusting his position on the slope to try to ease the ache in his back. “Just the look of him, I guess. The face, the body, the voice. None of it seemed to match.”

“I know what you mean,” said Porter. “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? We’ll never be able to interview him, we’ll never be able to understand it.”

The sun felt like it was pushing hot skewers into Kett’s eyes, so he closed them, covering his face with a hand. His headache was getting worse, a gathering storm right in the middle of his forehead, spears of lightning thumping the tender flesh of his brain. He heard his phone ring, feeling the trapped-fly buzz of it in his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to look.

“You want me to get that, sir?” asked Porter as the Mexican Hat Dance played for the second time.

Kett pulled it out, seeing Savage’s name on the screen. He met Porter’s eye, both bracing themselves.

“How is he?” Kett asked as soon as he’d answered. He put it on speaker, Porter leaning in.

“He’s gone, sir,” came Duke’s voice.

“Aaron!” said Savage. “For God’s sake. He means he’s gone to the ward. He’s out of surgery.”

“He’s okay?” said Kett, the relief of it pushing him to his feet. “He’s going to make it?”

“He’s still critical,” said Savage. “But he’s stable. They’ve managed to reattach the arm. It was a clean cut, but they won’t know if it will take for a few days.”

“He awake?” asked Porter.

“Not yet,” said Savage. “They’re keeping him under because he lost so much blood. But they think he’s going to make it. I think he’s going to make it.”

Kett breathed out slowly, his eyes filling. He squeezed Porter’s shoulder, the DI resting his hand on top of Kett’s for a second or two.

“Where are you, sir?” said Savage. “I heard about the train. He’s really dead?”

Kett glanced down the slope, seeing the crimson stains on the metal rails. The rooks had landed, pecking at sweet meats.

“He’s jam,” said Porter. “Prick did it to himself.”

“Suicide?” asked Savage.

“No,” said Kett. “He was delusional, probably a heartbeat away from dying anyway. He wasn’t making any sense, kept saying ‘I’m here.’”

“Where?” said Duke.

“I don’t know. But he was smiling when he said it.”

“Prick,” said Porter, kicking at a weed.

“Here,” said Savage. “Maybe he meant he was at the place he was supposed to be going? The place where he’s holding the victims? Anything around there that he could be using?”

Kett looked at the houses, then across at the empty fields.

“We’re at the back of Salhouse Road,” he said. “Nothing here that fits his MO. Is your other guy out of surgery? The one from the barn?”

“Yeah,” said Savage. “But he’s out of it. Doped up on the same cocktail Lina and Kathryn were. Still doesn’t remember his surname, or anything else that can help us.”

There was a shout from further down the railway track, a bunch of constables jogging towards the second train. One of the white-suited forensic technicians was wriggling out from the wheels, something clasped in her hand. She was too far away for Kett to make out what it was.

“I checked Karen’s list,” said Savage. “There are a few abandoned properties close to the Sheringham line, but we’ve been in them all.”

“Hang on, Kate,” said Kett. “I think they’ve found something.”

He set off down the slope, slipping on the dry earth. It took the better part of a minute to walk to the second train, partly because of the distance, and partly because they had to give the forensic markers a wide berth—dozens of them, revealing each scrap of tattered cloth, each portion of sheared flesh. The rail staff watched them go, not a friendly face in sight.

By the time they’d reached the train, the technician was free of the wheels. It was Cara Hay, he realised, and this close, he could see the blood on her hands and her knees. She had the same look on her face that he’d seen on people who’d been to war, the ones who’d witnessed the worst imaginable things. Even for Cara, this was bad.

Whatever she’d been through had been worth it, though, because she was holding a mangled square of brown leather.

“A wallet?” asked Kett as he walked over.

“A wallet,” said Cara.

“Where did you find it?” said Porter, and she gave him a look that said it would have been better not to ask.

“It definitely belongs to him,” she said.

Kett told himself not to glance beneath the train, but he did anyway. Luckily the shadows hid most of what lay there.

Not all of it, though.

He put the back of his hand to his mouth, the stew of acid churning up from his empty stomach. Cara was prying open the wallet, although it was resisting her, the flap sticky with gore. Kett had to turn his eyes to the sky, watching the circling rooks, hearing them mourn.

“Come on,” said Porter. “Give us something good.”

His prayer must have been answered, because he laughed. Kett looked at Cara to see a driving licence in her gloved hand.

“Holy shit,” said Porter. “It’s him?”

“You tell me,” she said, holding it out.

Porter leaned in, then clapped his hands together.

“It’s him. He’s, uh, Gideon? Is that right?”

Kett fumbled his glasses from his pocket with his free hand, still holding his phone. He put it to his ear.

“You still there, Kate?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “We’re driving. We’ll be with you in ten.”

Cara lifted the little card so that Kett could see it. The killer stared back at him, as dead-eyed as he had been on the train. He was slimmer here, and he still had some of his hair. The issue date was 2015.

“Gideon John Sherman,” said Kett, reading the name. “He’s forty-six. Got a place in Lingwood.”

“That’s an old licence, sir,” said Porter. “What are the chances he still lives there?”

“Better odds than anything else on this case,” said Kett.

He lifted the phone again.

“Don’t bother coming here,” he told Savage. “I’m sending you his address.”

They rode in IRVs, cutting through the Norfolk countryside. The low sun hammered against the windows, blindingly bright for the twenty minutes it took them to reach Lingwood. By the time Kett climbed out of the car, it felt like the sun was burning inside his skull, too, a supernova of pain that was making him nauseous.

Gideon Sherman’s driving licence had brought them to the middle of nowhere, a single-track road that sat nervously between open fields on one side and woodland on the other. To the right, stretching into the trees and hidden behind a wooden gate, was a lane. The sign on the gate, hand-painted in neat, white letters on a plank of black wood, said ‘Pardes.’

“Know what that means?” Kett asked Porter.

“Nope,” the DI replied, nodding up the road. “But here comes somebody who will.”

An obnoxiously pink car was rumbling towards them, almost lost in a cloud of dust. The Fiat 500 pulled up behind the IRVs, both doors opening. Savage was out in a heartbeat. Duke took a little longer, performing a full gymnastic routine in order to unfold himself from the tiny car. He got a quiet round of applause from the constables who were watching.

“Sorry,” said Savage as she walked over. “Aaron’s car was closer. Everyone else is tied up in the searches, or at the train.”

“You do realise you can buy your own car, don’t you, mate?” Porter called to Duke. “You don’t have to drive your mother’s weird little pimple.”

Duke smoothed down his moustache, glaring at Porter. He reached into the car and collected a can of Red Bull.

“You could get yourself a 308 GT,” Porter went on. “Go for the full Magnum PI look.”

“As opposed to the scraggy-bearded loser who drives a sad little Mondeo look, sir?” said Duke, taking a long sip of his drink. Judging by the size of his eyes, it wasn’t his first one.

Porter took a step towards him, but Kett put a hand on his arm.

“We’re all exhausted,” he said. “But there are people out there who need us. If we don’t find them today, they’re going to die. So hold it together.”

He walked to the gate, pulling back the stubborn bolt. The post had started to sag, and he had to lift it so it wouldn’t drag over the ground. Duke rushed over to help, making short work of it even with the can in his hand. The lane curved into the woods, but Kett could make out the vague shape of a house through the branches, almost ghost-like in the unforgiving morning light. It looked big.

“Alright,” he said. “As far as we can tell, our suspect’s dead, and he was working alone. But we don’t know anything for sure. Be very careful.”

“Any word on tactical?” asked Savage.

“They’re tied up on the searches,” said Kett. “Proctor’s going to send a team as soon as he can, but with any luck, we won’t need them.”

“I’m here,” said Duke, patting his Taser.

“Thank God,” said Porter, earning another glare from the PC.

Duke took the lead, the other constables moving with him, one holding an enforcer ram. Kett walked with Savage, Porter right behind them. They all looked at the gate as they passed it.

“Pardes,” said Savage. “It’s a Hebrew word. Means park, or garden.”

“Told you she’d know,” said Porter with a smile.

“It’s the same root as paradise,” she went on. “The Garden of Eden.”

“Alright, Encyclopaedia Jones,” said Porter, the smile fading. “Now you’re just showing off.”

If the place had ever resembled paradise, it had been a long time ago. Kett emerged from the tunnel of trees to see an imposing Georgian house that was badly in need of repair. It was drowning in a swamp of ivy, even the windows hidden. A towering oak tree had grown so close to the corner of the building that its branches probed the roof, picking off tiles. Its roots had made the bricks crumble, undermining it inch by inch. In a few years, it would bring the entire place down.

The garden was in worse shape still, the gravel driveway carpeted in weeds. To the left, past the house, was what looked like an orchard of apple trees, monstrous in their neglect. They had grown into each other, a tangle of wild branches that made Kett think of Pagan dancers lost to their lunacy. The smell of rotting fruit was overpowering, the drone of flies and wasps as loud as a plane.

The huddle of PCs had reached the wide front door. Duke looked back, and Kett gave him a nod. He put his Red Bull on the stone balustrade and thumped his fist on the wood.

“Knock knock,” he yelled. “Open up, it’s the police!”

Nobody was expecting an answer, and they didn’t get one. Duke knocked twice more, then stood back to make room for the PC with the ram. The house was old, but it had good bones. The ram hit its target nine times before the lock finally gave way and, even then, the door wouldn’t open. Duke crunched his shoe into it.

“You think it’s like Samson and Delilah?” asked Porter as he watched. “He’s cut his beard off, so he’s lost all his strength.”

“I heard that, sir,” said Duke, driving his foot into the door a second time, then a third. It finally gave in, wobbling into the wall, pieces of wood scattering across the floor. Duke flashed a smug smile at Porter.

“Anyone could have done that,” grumbled the DI.

Kett took a breath, praying that the house would offer up its secrets willingly. That it would lead them to the dying, rather than the dead.

“Move in,” he yelled to the waiting coppers. “And be ready for anything.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The fear of what they might find in Gideon Sherman’s house was almost as bad as the heat, but not quite. Kett made his way inside, grateful for the cool breeze that cut through the building. Ahead of him, a flood of uniformed officers stormed down the hall, a riot of sound and movement.

He’d expected to find more neglect here, but the interior was in far better shape than the grounds. The polished wooden floors gleamed like they’d been freshly oiled, the high ceilings free of dust and cobwebs. It was dark, the curtains of ivy keeping the sun out, making the house feel like a fairytale castle, fast asleep.

There was a click from behind him, Savage turning on the lights. A wide entrance hall cut through the middle of the house, all the way to a kitchen. A grand staircase led to the first floor, the walls bedecked with oil paintings. There were potted plants everywhere, all thriving. Kett pushed his fingers into the soil of the nearest one. It was still damp.

He was starting to get the same feeling of dread he’d had in the DJ’s house. Not that they’d found the killer, but that somehow, they’d got the wrong man.

Two of the constables charged up the creaking stairs, announcing their presence with angry shouts. The rest seemed to have lost any sense of urgency as they returned to the hallway.

“It’s clear, sir,” said one. “Empty. But there’s a door in the kitchen that’s locked. Might be a basement.”

“Get it open,” said Kett.

He watched them carry the ram down the corridor, then he turned to Savage, who was examining one of the paintings on the wall. It was a landscape, maybe four-foot long and three-foot tall, showing an orchard a little like the one that sat outside. In the distance was what might have been a castle. A naked figure was curled up beneath a tree, their face hidden. Despite the fact everything seemed calm, the painting gave Kett an uneasy feeling.

“Gethsemane,” said Savage.

“Huh?” said Kett.

“Gethsemane,” she repeated, and it didn’t make any more sense the second time.

“How the hell do you know that?” said Porter.

“Says it right there,” Savage replied, pointing to an engraved plaque on the heavy frame. “The Agony of Christ in Gethsemane. This was right before his crucifixion.”

She moved to the next canvas, an almost photographic portrait of a woman in an elaborate dress holding a silver platter. It took Kett a moment to realise that what sat on the platter wasn’t food, it was a man’s head, his eyes open in horror, his beard saturated with blood. It was so well done that if he’d squinted, it could have been a photograph.

“Christ,” said Kett, leaning in.

“Not quite, sir,” said Savage. “Saint John the Baptist. He was beheaded by King Herod, and the head was given to Herod’s daughter, Salome. This is her.”

The woman had a smile on her face, the delight in her eyes perfectly clear.

“That’s horrible,” said Duke. There was a crack and a fizz as he opened another can of Red Bull.

“Got another one of them?” asked Porter, licking his lips. “I’m parched.”

“Nope,” said Duke.

“Can I have a sip, then?”

Duke drained the can, never taking his eyes off Porter.

“You do remember me saving your life, like, three months ago?” said the DI.

“These are all religious paintings,” Savage went on, ignoring them. “Heaven.”

She was looking at the next one, a vista of pink clouds, some of which formed translucent castles. Winged figures soared, dancing.

“Looks like they’re all by the same artist,” said Savage. “Meredith Sherman. The dates are from the 1970s. I recognise the name.”

“His mother?” said Kett. “Grandmother, maybe. Do we know anything about Gideon, yet?”

“Spalding’s on it, sir,” said Savage.

Kett pulled out his phone, calling the DS. While he waited for an answer, he walked to another painting, this one showing a man who was naked apart from a loincloth. His body could have belonged to a sports model, every muscle picked out in detail. A set of feathery wings extended from his back. He looked angelic in every way, apart from his face. His lips were pulled back to reveal small, sharp teeth, and his eyes burned with a sulphuric yellow glow. He seemed to stare right into the middle of Kett’s soul, real enough that he half expected the man to walk out of the frame.

“Lucifer,” he said, reading the plaque.

“That’s a little harsh, sir,” said Spalding on the phone. “I’m not that bad.”

“Sorry, Alison,” he said. “You managed to find anything on our suspect?”

“Quite a bit. I was about to call you. You heard about Clare?”

“Stable, but still critical.”

“Yeah,” she said. “They think he might make it.”

He could hear the relief in her voice, the emotion so unlike her.

“Gideon John Sherman,” she went on. “Named Gideon after his grandfather, Gideon Bevan.”

“Hang on, Alison, I’m going to put you on speaker.”

He held the phone out so they could all hear, her voice echoing around the wide hallway.

“His mother’s name was Meredith Bevan. She married Alan Sherman, an American businessman, richer than sin. She’s quite famous, you know.”

“Painter?” said Kett.

“Oh, you did know,” she said, a little disappointed. “Yeah, had several pieces in the National Gallery, and she’s quite highly sought after. Made a lot of money out of it, even though she didn’t need it. She was a notorious recluse, highly religious. A proper kook, as my mother would say, but then most artists are, aren’t they? Died in 2006, but nobody had seen her for years before that. Alan died in 1980, drowned in a lake on the property when Gideon was two years old.”

“Shit,” said Kett, walking towards the sound of the enforcer ram destroying the basement door.

“Gideon’s an only child. There isn’t much information on him. Meredith never really gave interviews and even when she did, she didn’t speak about her personal life. Looks like he was educated at home.”

“I can only imagine what that must have been like,” said Kett, staring through a door into a glum parlour room. More of Meredith’s paintings hung on the walls, including one that must have been six-foot tall: Christ on the crucifix, his face warped in agony, blood pouring from his crown of thorns. His eyes were as bright as anything in the room, full of an almost ecstatic joy, despite the horror of his situation.

It took him a moment to notice that the cross here was shaped like a Y, the same as Gideon’s.

“Can’t have messed him up too badly,” said Spalding. “He did his A-Levels, then studied history at Cambridge, of all places. 1996-1999, then a Masters. As far as I can tell, he’s been working as a history teacher ever since. Reepham High School, then one of the academies in Yarmouth. Taught art for a while too. He’s still listed as a member of staff there.”

“A teacher?” said Kett, frowning. He pictured the man on the train, his wild eyes, his bestial groans. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, unless there’s another man whose parents called their child Gideon John Sherman.”

“You’ve spoken to the school?”

“It’s a Sunday, there’s nobody about. But I’ll keep trying.”

“He’s never had another job? Never trained as an electrician or anything?”

“Not that I can see, but it’s not like I’m reading his biography.”

Kett entered the kitchen, the back wall of the house clear of ivy and brighter for it. Through the enormous windows he saw that the garden beyond was a meadow, stretching endlessly up a hill. Dragonflies swooped back and forth between the pastel flowers, occasionally bumping off the glass. He was starting to understand why the place had been named after Paradise.

The basement door was on the far side of the room, set into a cluster of dark brown units, and the PC with the ram was still trying to break through it. He wasn’t having much luck, out of breath and drenched with sweat.

“Let me do it,” said Duke, walking over and setting his empty can on the island.

Porter scuttled after him, overtaking.

“Give it to me,” said the DI. “This needs proper strength.”

Kett leaned on the counter to take the load off his back.

“Gideon’s not known to us at all,” Spalding went on. “No arrests, nothing. He inherited the house after his mother’s death, enough in the bank to pay off inheritance tax without having to sell. Is there much artwork there?”

“Loads,” said Kett, staring at one that was mounted over the breakfast table: another beautiful landscape scarred by a forest of Y-shaped wooden crosses, all occupied by the skeletal dead. His fear of having the wrong place ended here. The painting was far too similar to what they’d found in the Reaper’s murder rooms to be a coincidence.

“Then he’s a millionaire, if he wants to be,” Spalding said. “The average Sherman fetches high five figures at auction, some have gone for millions.”

“That’s insane,” said Kett. “I’m in the wrong job.”

“We’re all in the wrong job, sir,” said Spalding. “But none of us seem to know how to get out.”

Kett laughed quietly.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” she said through the phone’s speaker. “I’ll keep looking, when I’m not trying to overthrow the Almighty.”

Spalding hung up, and Savage frowned at Kett.

“Don’t ask,” he said, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

Porter was thumping the ram into the door with all his strength. He’d taken off his jacket, his shirt drenched with sweat. Duke watched him, his arms folded over his chest, his moustache twitching.

“Fucking… thing’s… reinforced,” said Porter, struggling to breathe.

“Just imagine there’s a Snickers on the other side, sir,” said Duke.

Porter looked like he was going to throw the ram at the PC, but he managed to control himself. He tried again, his body vibrating with the force of it. The metallic clang when the ram hit home meant that he was probably right. The door had been reinforced.

“Why do they argue so much?” asked Kett.

“They love each other really,” said Savage. “They remind me of me and my brother when we were kids, always fighting.”

“He’s too ugly to be my brother,” yelled Porter.

He tried again, bouncing off the door, staggering.

“Let me,” said Duke, stepping in.

“I’m going to use your stupid head as a ram in a second, move out the way.”

Porter took a few steps back, teetering like a drunk.

“Lucky number seven,” he said.

He ran forward again, gargling a howl of rage. The ram hit right beneath the handle and the door finally gave way, crunching out of the frame. Porter kept on going, pulled by the weight and the momentum of the heavy ram. He vanished into the dark, followed by the clatter of something falling down the stairs.

“Shit,” said Kett, running to the door. “Pete?”

Duke was already in, one hand on the ruined frame.

“Sir? You alright?”

Kett squeezed past the giant PC and clicked on the light, revealing Porter at the top of a set of stairs, hunched and sweating, gulping for breath. With his shirt untucked, and his awful beard, he looked like some kind of vagrant busted for indecent exposure. The ram must have been what Kett had heard tumbling down the stairs, because he couldn’t see it anywhere.

“Told you…” said Porter, putting his hands on his hips like he’d just raced a marathon. “Needed… proper strength.”

“Good job, sir,” said Duke, clapping him on the shoulder. “You were right. Samson. It’s the beard.”

Porter stroked his fuzzy stubble, thrusting out his hairy chin.

“Too right,” he said.

They crowded at the top of the stairs, the walls here rough plaster, no sign of the artworks that hung everywhere else. A single door waited for them at the bottom, the ram lying right in front of it like it was eager to get back to work. Nobody seemed in a hurry to move, so Kett took the lead, the stairs utterly silent beneath him. He dropped into the chill of the basement and opened the door.

The smell was the first thing that hit him, the reek of rot and decay.

The stench of death.

He covered his mouth with his hand as he walked forward, spotting the switch on the wall and clicking it. The fluorescent lights took their time, humming like wasps.

“Holy shit,” said Kett, his words hot against his fingers.

Ahead was a narrow corridor with a dirt floor. It stretched for maybe twenty yards before ending at a triptych of wooden doors, one on the left, one on the right, and one smack bang in the middle. Every single scrap of space on the brick walls and the low ceiling had been daubed in graffiti, including a parade of enormous, spray-painted skeletons. They stood in black robes, their bony hands clasped in front of their chests like unholy saints. The expression that had been painted on their faces held the same lunatic glee as Meredith Sherman’s version of Christ on his cross.

“They look like the ones we found in the church,” said Savage. “And the barn.”

They were identical, and so were the words that had been sprayed between and around the hellish figures, written over and over and over again; a hundred times, a thousand, even.

The dead must not wake.

“At least we know we’re in the right place,” said Kett.

Duke pushed gently to the front, pulling his Taser from its holster. Kett nodded to him, and he made his way slowly along the corridor. A tail of nervous PCs followed.

“Armed police,” Duke yelled as he reached the doors, his words echoing back off the walls.

“Just because you keep saying it doesn’t make it true,” said Porter. “It’s a bloody Taser.”

Duke started with the door in the left-hand wall, opening it slowly before taking a single step inside. By the time Kett had caught up to him, he was out again.

“Clear,” he said, pulling a face. “But gross.”

Duke turned the handle of the middle door next, calling out a warning as he lunged inside. Kett moved into the first room, grimacing as the smell clawed up his sinuses. The blazing overhead lights revealed a tiny space that was barely big enough for the single mattress that lay there. A mound of blankets had been piled on top of it, as well as a yellow pillow without a case. More screaming figures had been painted here, all of them staring at the bed, skeletal fingers reaching for it. Maybe twenty black binbags had been dumped against the walls, most tied shut, some split open like spilled guts, revealing their rancid contents: half-empty dog food tins, packets of meat, cartons of milk, their contents as thick as cottage cheese. The smell was almost physical, collecting at the top of his throat.

“Oh God,” he said, clamping his hand harder over his mouth.

He backed out urgently, colliding with Savage, the space too small for them. He couldn’t breathe down here. He pushed into the second room to try to escape the stench, relieved to find a much larger space, this one empty. Duke was walking back from the far wall, still holding his Taser.

“Clear,” he said as he made his way out of the door. “Two down, one to go.”

This was the main cellar space, maybe twenty-foot wide and just as long. There were so many lights overhead that Kett had to squint, seeing two brick pillars that held up the ceiling. Two immense black speakers sat by the base of the columns, and four expensive projectors were suspended on brackets from the ceiling, one pointing to each whitewashed wall.

“The hell?” said Porter, who had followed him in. “Guy’s sleeping in a rubbish dump, but he’s got a ten grand home cinema next door?”

There were no switches here, other than the one for the lights; no DVD players or computers. Kett walked back into the corridor and through the third door, where Duke and Savage waited for him. This space was bigger than the first room but smaller than the second. The walls had been painted in the same way as the others, Grim Reapers everywhere, words strung between them, too small and too messy for him to make out.

Two large wooden workbenches had been set up on opposite walls. One was covered in piles of papers and envelopes, the other was equipped with a vice, shards of metal and scraps of bone arranged on the pitted surface. A crude rack sat in the furthest corner, a length of black fabric draped over the pole. Two lockers stood next to it, the doors open to reveal a selection of tools. A third was positioned by the door, as if it had been shunned. This one was locked with a padlock the size of Kett’s fist.

“Can somebody get that open?” he said, walking past it to the first workbench. Thousands of sheets of A4 had been left here, in no apparent order; each covered in lines of printed text, or handwritten notes, or sketches, and sometimes all three.

Kett picked one at random, sliding on his glasses to make sense of it. Running along the top was a single question, printed from a computer:

WHO ARE YOU?

Beneath, written in pen maybe fifty times, was the same answer.

I am no one I am Death.

The words had been scrawled with such fury that the pen had broken through the paper in places. The same thing was written all over the back, the letters running into each other. There was a smudge of red on the bottom which could only be blood, half a fingerprint smeared inside it.

Kett put it back, picking up another and seeing exactly the same thing.

I am no one I am Death, again and again and again.

The third sheet was different, but only slightly. Here, there was no printed question, just a scrawl of handwriting, the letters written with such urgency that Kett couldn’t make much sense of them. He could see the word ‘dead,’ though, more than once. There was another crimson fingerprint here, as if the killer had used his blood as a signature, or a seal.

“Anything?” said Savage, her face miserable as she collected a sheet of paper. “‘Kill them, don’t kill them,’” she read, holding it out so that Kett could see the words, repeated like a mantra. “What does he mean?”

Kett glanced under the table to see more papers, the ones that had spilled over the edge. There were binbags, too, although these ones didn’t smell so bad. Kett gently prised open the top of one, finding hundreds of black envelopes inside. They were lined with bubble wrap, the folds torn where they’d been opened. They looked empty, and there was nothing written on them.

“Got his cloak over here,” said Duke.

The PC was standing by the clothes rack, holding up the length of cloth. He was obviously struggling with the weight of it as he tried to figure out which end was the top.

“Got a hood, I think. And pockets!”

He pulled a face, dropping it back where he’d found it and running his hands down his trousers.

“Got, like, bones on it, or something,” he said. “Looks like ribs, from the Chinese.”

“Can’t be the one he was wearing when he attacked us,” said Savage. “There’s no way he made it all the way back here after he was shot, is there?”

“Doubtful,” said Kett. “There’s no blood on the floor, for one thing. He must have had a spare.”

“Spare cloak, spare scythe,” said Porter. He stood in the far corner of the room, next to the two lockers, wrestling a shaft of wood from one. The shape of the handles was unmistakeable, even though it didn’t have its blade. “Weighs a tonne. Guy must have been the Hulk to swing this.”

“Probably not that heavy,” said Duke. “Let me have a go.”

“No,” said Porter, putting it back where it had come from.

“Anything else in there?” asked Kett.

“Spray cans,” said Porter, leaning in. “Bunch of knives. Nothing much.”

There was a deafening clang as one of the PCs managed to pry the padlock from the solitary locker. It hit the floor, skidding under the bench. The constable opened the door, revealing a bank of electronic equipment, red and green lights blinking.

“Whoa,” said Porter, heading over.

Kett joined him by the locker, seeing a stack of four DVD players above a hi-fi unit, all reasonably new. Beneath them were six shelves packed with discs, all neatly filed in plastic slipcases. There had to be hundreds of them.

There was also a little clear bag, and Porter pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it out.

“Ketamine,” he said. “Three vials, and some hypodermics. This is medical-grade stuff, from a hospital.”

“It’s what he was using on his victims,” said Kett. “How the hell did he get hold of that?”

“Money,” said Savage. “He obviously wasn’t short of it.”

Porter returned the bag where he’d found it, then pushed a button on one of the DVD players. The tray slid out, a disc inside. EYES 8451 was printed on it in red marker. He closed it and opened the next one.

“Eyes 4450,” said Kett, reading it. “Any ideas?”

“Probably feeds into the room next door,” he said. “Want to try it?”

No, thought Kett, but he nodded anyway.

Porter pressed play on the machine. It whirred softly, a whisper that felt far too calm for what was going to come next.

A scream from the bigger room, so harrowing that the goosebumps erupted on Kett’s arms, so real that he wondered if they’d somehow missed a victim in there. He didn’t want to go back through that door. He didn’t want to see who was making that noise.

All he wanted to do was walk up the stairs, walk out of the house.

Walk out of the job.

Porter pressed play on the second machine, another scream joining the first, overlapping it. He did the same with the last two, creating a soundtrack from hell.

Savage was already walking, her hands grasped in her hair as she made her way into the corridor. Kett followed, not wanting her to be on her own. Together, they chased the shrieks and the sobs and the wails to the middle room.

No matter how much he’d tried to steel himself, he couldn’t prepare for what he saw when he walked through the door.

The four projectors were running in sync, spewing their filth onto the whitewashed walls. Only the bright lights of the room stopped it from being unbearable, the overhead fluorescents muting the colours, softening the details.

There was no denying what he was looking at, though. The films were variations on the same theme, each showing one of Gideon’s victims attached to a wooden frame inside a kill room. Their arms were stretched to the sides, their legs stitched in place, feet barely touching the ground. Some were moving, their mouths twisted into screams, their eyes manic with terror. Their screams were so loud they made the projectors’ inbuilt speakers vibrate, the words filling the room, filling Kett’s head.

“Please! Please let me go! Please!”

“Help me! Somebody help me!”

Others lay still. Some unconscious, some recently dead. Some long dead, their faces withered, their skin pulled taut over skeletal faces.

The feeds weren’t static, they were changing, the original victims vanishing to be replaced with new ones, in new locations. There were other things, too, flashes of text that came and went too quickly for Kett to read them.

“My God,” said Savage beside him.

She was bathed in the light from the closest projector, the sick show splashed across her face, reflecting in the tears that rolled down her cheeks. It was on him, too, he saw when he lifted his hand, a dead man on the palm of his hand, mouth flexing. He had to resist the urge to scrub at his skin, to rid himself of it like it was an infectious disease. Instead, he walked into the eye of the storm, standing in the middle of the room between the two columns. He turned slowly, seeing horror after horror after horror.

There was a snap, and the lights went out. Savage had flicked the switch. Instantly, the ghostly footage on the walls sharpened and brightened, as real as if he was standing next to the victims. They crowded around him, endless death, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming.

Here, at least, he could make more sense of the flashes of text that intersected the footage of the victims. One burned across the wall right in front of him, white text on a black and white image of what might have been flies on rotting meat, bright enough that it cut its shape into his retinas.

THEY NEED YOU.

Replaced in an instant by an old man who strained at the wire that held him in place, who howled for his mother.

Kett turned, seeing another image from the projector on the right-hand wall. This was different, a shot from higher up, in the church where they’d found Lina, he realised. A hooded figure in black strode across the floor, a scythe in one hand. There were seven wooden crucifixes mounted in front of him, just like they’d seen, but only the one on the left was occupied. Before Kett could see who was in it, the shot changed: the killer again, from a closer angle, still moving, then again, from the other side, then back. Between every shot, a word flashed up, black on white.

KILL

THEM

DON’T

KILL

THEM

It had been edited like a music video, the effect dizzying, disorienting.

“What is this?” asked Savage, creeping into the room. “Why is he⁠—”

A noise erupted from the enormous speakers, a sound like the voice of God. Kett clamped his hands to his ears, but it didn’t make any difference. It was a thrash metal track, like the one in the church, a cacophony of discordant guitars and drums, the bass strong enough to pulverise his organs.

Only one thing pulled itself clear of the noise, a high-pitched voice screaming the same word until their breath ran out; time and time again, no rhythm, no tune, just violence.

“Death!”

“Death!”

“Death!”

Kett grabbed the pillar, turning around, trying to escape. The sound had deafened him, the images had blinded him. He thumped into somebody—Savage—and they held each other, finding their way to the door like they were walking through smoke and fire. They fell through it together just as the volume dropped. Kett’s ears rang from the damage it had done, throbbing with pain.

Porter leaned through the door of the workroom.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice fuzzy, like he was speaking from the other end of the basement. “That’s what the volume was set to. I just pressed play.”

Kett flexed his jaw, that high-pitched whine like somebody drilling into his skull. Duke jogged to Savage, offering her his arms. She turned away from him, her fingers in her ears.

“Who is this guy?” she said.

Kett stared into the middle room again, seeing those same images playing in an endless, awful loop. Every few seconds, the killer appeared, Gideon in his hood, holding his scythe, shoulders hunched, every bit the Grim Reaper.

And if there was any doubt at all, the music played on, quieter now, but no less insistent; each breathless scream answering Savage’s question.

“Death! Death! Death!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As hard as it was, Kett made himself watch.

He stood in the middle of that basement room, leaning against one of the pillars, as the faces of the dying and the dead paraded before him. Savage stood with him, Duke hovering in the doorway, watching her, not the films that played against the walls. They’d cut off all but one of the projectors, but it didn’t make it any less horrific.

Porter had the easiest job, manning the DVD player, switching out the discs as soon as they’d finished. None of them was longer than ten minutes, the edits ending as abruptly as they started. Each seemed more horrific than the last.

The volume had been turned down completely, both the music and the audio from the films. It should have made it easier, but it didn’t. In the silence of the room, Kett imagined every scream, every plea, every last breath as the victims succumbed to injury and starvation.

He could gouge his eardrums out right now, he knew, and he would still hear those noises for the rest of his life.

Some of the victims he’d seen before. Lina, just hours after she’d been stitched to her frame, still strong enough to fight it. Patrick Dodson was there too, teeth clenched in agony as he tried to free himself. He saw the other dead before they’d passed; their final, unbearable hours. There was no sign of Kathryn Sutton.

Every time somebody new appeared, Kett yelled for Porter to pause the film. He took a photo, collating them on his phone, trying to identify the locations from the footage. The church in the woods was the obvious one, and the barn where Clare had been attacked. But there were at least two more that they hadn’t visited, both brick-walled spaces like the one he was standing in, only much bigger.

So far, he’d counted nine separate victims.

Marla finally appeared after forty minutes or so, the young woman so frightened that she didn’t look real. She hung from the wall the way the others had, her skin taut from the metal wire that had been sewn through it.

“Pause it, Pete,” he yelled when she appeared.

The footage stopped, Marla’s body tense, about to scream.

Kett took a photo, his hands trembling. Her frame had been fixed to a whitewashed brick wall, not a single feature that might help them locate her. There were no dates on the films, no sense of time. The edits seemed deliberately haphazard and random, as if they’d been designed to be confusing, showing the same victims dead, then alive, then dead again. Marla had been taken three weeks ago, so there was every chance she was already gone. But Lina had survived. The killer had kept her alive. Kathryn, too.

They had to keep hoping.

“Play it,” he croaked, leaning back against the pillar as another wave of vertigo washed over him. His head was pounding.

“Why don’t you take a break, sir?” said Savage.

He shook his head, his eyes weeping from trying to keep them open.

“I’ll take over,” she said. “Just for a few minutes. Get some air.”

“You can both take a break,” said Porter, squeezing in next to Duke. “Aaron and I will watch for a bit.”

“Huh?” said Duke.

“Don’t worry, you can press the buttons,” said Porter. “You won’t be able to see anything past that soup strainer anyway.”

His attempt at humour dropped like a corpse. The DI entered the room as if there was a wild animal inside.

“I’ll be okay. Go on.”

Kett nodded, handing the DI his phone. The battery was on 3%.

“Everything we’ve seen so far is on there,” he said. “It’s not easy, Pete.”

“When is it ever?” said Porter. “Roll it, Duke.”

Kett made his getaway before the film could start playing again, walking fast. He climbed the stairs like the killer was chasing him, emerging into the relative warmth of the kitchen. He could still smell the reek of Gideon’s basement bedroom, old food and unwashed flesh.

The house was packed, uniformed constables teeming between the rooms as they searched for anything that might be able to help. All the artwork had been pulled from the walls, the cupboards emptied, the furniture upended. Any forensic technicians that Cara had been able to spare from the train were on site as well, going through the discoveries with a fine-tooth comb. It was a struggle to get from one side of the house to the other, but eventually Kett stepped out of the front door into the heat and the fury of the sun.

He stopped on the stoop, but Savage walked ahead, her hands on the small of her back. She closed her eyes and held her face to the sky like she wanted to burn away every memory of the basement.

“I keep hoping it will get better,” she said. “I keep praying we’ll make a difference. But it’s getting worse, sir.”

“I know, Kate,” he said.

She turned to him.

“Why?”

“If I knew that, maybe we’d be able to stop all this before it started,” he told her.

He took a breath, smelling the mouldering fruit of the orchard.

Rot everywhere, he thought, and the depression hit him like a punch to the gut, the awful, inevitable truth that no matter what they did, it would always be like this.

It would just keep getting worse.

“We need to focus,” he said, as much to himself as to Savage. “There’s still time. We’ve got ten people on those films so far. That’s eleven victims, if we count Kathryn. There were four in the church, three in the ground, another two in the barn. There were two more rooms in those videos. That’s where we need to go.”

“There will be hundreds of spaces like that in Norfolk,” said Savage. “Thousands, maybe. And we don’t know if he’s still using them. We don’t know how far back those films stretch. They could be years. We don’t know anything, sir, and we can’t ask him.”

Because he’s dead, Kett finished, feeling a stab of guilt. He rubbed his chest, walking around the legion of parked IRVs into the shade of the trees on the other side of the driveway. The rooks seemed to have followed them to the house, crowding the guttering, heckling from the branches of the enormous oak. He clapped his hands, but the only thing he managed to scare was Savage.

“Sorry,” he said. “Bloody birds, I hate them.”

“You sound like Porter, sir,” she said, kicking a stone into the undergrowth. She took a moment before speaking again, looking at the house. “I don’t understand why Gideon was filming them.”

Kett opened his mouth to reply, but she didn’t give him a chance.

“I mean, I get why killers sometimes do. Trophies, memories, whatever. But I’ve never seen anything like this. Those films are professional, they’re like something from an art house movie. The angles, the editing. Something like that would take a lot of time. And why do it? Just to play them to himself in his basement? It’s insane.”

“That’s just it,” said Kett. “He was insane. We can’t look for rhyme or reason in his madness.”

“But we can, sir,” she said. “It’s easy to dismiss him as a… a nutjob, but serial killers are notorious for their sanity.”

She was struggling, the heat and the exhaustion making her stumble over her words. Kett gave her time.

“Not that they’re actually sane. They’re psychotic. But inside their heads, they’re the only ones who have any kind of sanity. They build their actions, their kills, around a strict worldview, a perfectly ordered system. It’s how they justify it to themselves. Gideon filmed his victims, his crimes, and he played them back to himself. I think he was reinforcing the delusion, trying to keep it real.”

“Like he was brainwashing himself?” said Kett.

“Yeah, exactly. That’s exactly it. Being in that room, surrounded by all those videos, and that music. It’s like he’s trying to crush everything else out of his head, you know? Trying to reduce himself to this one thing, this monster that he’s created.”

“Death.”

“Death,” Savage echoed. “The Grim Reaper. But the fact he’s doing that…”

She hesitated again before finding her voice.

“It’s like we said before, it’s like he’s doubting himself. The basement room is his safety net. If he feels like he’s questioning his purpose, he goes there, he watches the films, he lets the music kind of reset his brain. All those notes he’s written to himself, it helps solidify that delusion.”

“That’s good, Kate,” said Kett. “He’s not sure any more, this illusion he’s created, it’s starting to crumble. That’s why he kept Lina alive when he was supposed to let her die. That’s why he brought Kathryn to us when she managed to free herself.”

“There are two sides to him,” said Savage. “The one that believes he’s Death, and the one who’s still Gideon.”

She winced.

“The one who was Gideon, I mean.”

They both watched as two more constables walked down the driveway, entering through the front door.

“But it makes sense, sir,” Savage went on. “Look at this place, look at the life he’s had. His dad dies when he’s a child. His mum’s trapped in a delusion of her own, some kind of religious mania. Her world is dominated by her artistic visions. I think I read it somewhere, that Meredith Sherman painted because she saw these places. They weren’t portraits or landscapes to her, they were photographs of places she thought she’d visited, glimpses of something that actually existed. They were real, to her.”

“A kid growing up like that?” said Kett. “He never stood a chance.”

“They mess you up, your mum and dad,” said Savage. “Meredith must have unlocked the possibility in Gideon’s mind that all of these things could be real. Heaven, hell, and Death. She chipped away at the rational side of Gideon’s psychology, she fed him her delusions, and somewhere along the way he started inventing his own.”

“It doesn’t explain why he goes after people who have survived terrible things,” said Kett. “The cancer patients, the soldiers.”

“It does,” said Savage. “It explains it perfectly. Those paintings in there, they all fall into one of two categories. Did you see that?”

“Uh,” said Kett, trying to engage the gears of his overheating brain. “They’re pretty horrible, if that’s what you mean. Not all of them, but most.”

“That’s what Meredith Sherman painted,” said Savage. “The duality of religious existence. The world is a terrible place. Crucifixions, beheadings, nothing but violence and anger and hatred and death. The horror of life.”

“And the glory of heaven,” said Kett, remembering the calmer paintings he’d seen, the glimpses of pink clouds, of angelic figures.

“Exactly,” said Savage, a sad smile on her face. “Did you see the one of his father, in the kitchen?”

Kett shook his head.

“An angel, borne up by golden light. That’s what he thought he was doing, sending people to Paradise. He thought he was helping them.”

“He said as much on the train,” said Kett. “He said exactly that, that he was saving them.”

“Gideon lost his dad too young to remember him,” said Savage. “Years later, he lost his mum, the architect of these delusions, the bedrock of everything he believed. He wanted to know that they’d made it to the afterlife, that they were safe, and that might have triggered something else, a deeper belief structure.”

“Returning the dead to where they were supposed to be,” said Kett.

“So they can escape the misery of mortal life, and embrace Paradise. These people become his art, framed on the wall. He’s carrying on his mother’s legacy.”

“Christ, Kate, how do you come up with this stuff?”

She shrugged.

“I read a lot, sir. None of it’s very nice.”

“What’s with the Y-shaped crucifixes, by the way?” he asked. “His mother painted them that way. Mean anything to you?”

“You see them every now and again,” she said. “In older artworks. They’re called fork crosses, I think. Or mystical crosses. Gideon’s were slightly different. Cruder. I didn’t make the connection until now.”

She puffed out a breath.

“From what I remember, they’re an even more horrific punishment than the regular ones.”

“How does it help us?” he said. “Knowing this? How can it help us find the other victims?”

She wanted to answer, he could see that much, but after a moment or two she shook her head.

“It doesn’t,” she said. “Maybe if he was alive, but… I’d have guessed that he only picked religious sites for his work, but the barn wasn’t consecrated, it was just a house. I can’t get inside his head, I can’t work out why he’s keeping the victims in different locations. It’s more work. He has to prep each place, make sure it’s secure. He has to rig up the electrics, the cameras. It doesn’t make sense to spread himself that thin.”

Kett frowned.

“We didn’t find any cameras, did we?” he said. “Not in the church or the barn.”

“No, sir,” said Savage. “But there were a lot of plug sockets, cables. He must have carried them with him, set it up each time. And…”

She shook her head, unsure.

“But that doesn’t tally with his delusion, does it?” she said. “Not at all. If Gideon thought he was the Grim Reaper then why would he need to film it? Death is eternal, immortal, he doesn’t need technology. It’s a paradox. He’s so convinced he’s Death that he kills all these people, but he needs the video evidence of his murders to convince him he’s Death? Why?”

“I don’t know, Kate,” said Kett. “But the answer’s here somewhere. It has to be.”

He thought about walking back into that basement, into the heart of Gideon’s insanity. He’d escaped once. He wasn’t sure his mind would survive another trip.

“Let’s pack everything up,” he said. “We can get more eyes on it at HQ, more people to go through those notes, more DVD players for the films.”

The relief on Savage’s face was obvious.

“I’ll go give the order,” she said, heading off. “We’ve still got time, sir.”

Kett checked his watch to see that it was almost midday.

Yeah, they still had time.

But not much.

Ninety minutes later, the MIT bullpen was mobbed, barely enough space to walk between the desks. It felt like every detective in the region had been drafted in to help, dozens of faces that Kett didn’t recognise. Some pored through the papers that had been left on the workbench in Gideon’s basement. Others meticulously examined photographs of Meredith’s artwork, trying to match the buildings she’d painted to anything in the county. It was a long shot, but they were desperate.

Two dozen unfortunate souls were spread across the Incident Room, the various offices, and the kitchen, anywhere they could find space, watching the killer’s DVDs on their laptops. Nobody had counted how many discs there were, but it was in the hundreds, each one subtly different to the others. It must have taken Gideon hours to make each one, and Kett wasn’t sure how he’d found time to do it in between teaching history classes and abducting his victims.

It was one of a number of things that wasn’t making any sense.

It was hard to focus on what did make sense, though. Partly because of the heat—for some godforsaken reason, the radiators in HQ were firing at full blast, everybody close to drowning in their own sweat—partly because of the exhaustion, and partly because every time Kett looked up from his work, he expected to see Clare striding across the office with a face like thunder, or looming over him, close enough to show off every nose hair in microscopic detail.

It was far too quiet here without him.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” said Porter from the next desk over.

“Huh?” Kett replied.

“You were looking at the Super’s office. I feel it too. It’s not the same without him tossing everywhere.”

Kett surprised himself with a laugh.

“I can’t even get my head straight without him yelling at me,” Porter went on.

“I know,” said Kett. “We’ve been conditioned by years of abuse. I can shout a bit, if it’ll help?”

“You can try it,” said Porter, sitting back in his chair and flexing his neck.

“Get on with it, you rancid bowl of squirrel toss,” said Kett, doing his best to imitate Clare’s Yorkshire accent.

Porter pulled a face.

“Guess it has to be him, sir,” he said. “But thanks for trying.”

“You’re welcome, you badger’s anal gland,” said Kett.

“What’s going on,” asked Duke, walking over. He was twitching a little, his eyes wide. “We insulting Porter? Can I have a go?”

“No,” said Kett. “We’re just⁠—”

“Go shave your bumfluff, you bloated, big-arsed wank sock,” said Duke.

Porter’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Oi!” said Kett. “That’s uncalled for, Duke.”

“God, sorry,” said the PC, still twitching. His eyes were bloodshot, his moustache bristling. He held both hands out to Porter. “I didn’t mean that, sir. I’ve just had a lot of Red Bull. Like, a lot. So much. A whole case. So many cans in a case. I don’t know why that all came out of my mouth.”

Porter still hadn’t recovered, his mouth gaping.

“What do you need, Aaron?” said Kett.

“Oh, right, it’s just Spalding asked me to pass this on.”

He held out a sheet of printed paper, and Kett took it, finding a vehicle profile: a Jaguar in Meredith Sherman’s name, registered to Gideon’s address.

“Lush car, that one,” said Duke. “1972 XJ. Four litre engine. Goes like shit off a shovel. Had a look, it’s brown. Shame, the blue ones are nicer.”

“Anyone find it on-site?” said Kett, trying to get a word in.

“No, that’s the good news sir,” said Duke. “Means he was probably using it. Spalding’s checking traffic cams now. If it pinged an ANPR, it’ll give us an idea of where we’re looking.”

“Great,” said Kett. “This is good news.”

“A bloated, big-arsed wank sock?” said Porter, who had finally emerged from his stunned silence.

“I didn’t mean any of it,” said Duke, backing away nervously. He waited until he was a couple of desks away before shouting: “Apart from the shaving your bumfluff bit.”

Porter launched himself out of his chair, ready to go after him.

“Give it up, Pete,” said Kett. “The last thing you need to be doing is picking a fight with Duke. The amount of caffeine in his system, he’d tie you in knots like a balloon animal.”

“Bloody wouldn’t,” said Porter. “I’d tie him in knots like a balloon animal. Like a fucking… giraffe.”

He twisted the air with both hands to demonstrate, looking like he was wringing somebody’s neck.

Kett looked at the profile for Meredith’s Jaguar again, something nagging at his thoughts. He unplugged his phone and stood up, weaving through the crowd and heading for the Incident Room. Porter trod on his heels, still fuming. There wasn’t much space inside, almost every desk taken. Most of the coppers watching their laptops had turned the sound off or had their headphones on. But Kett still heard the muffled screams, the voices that begged for their lives and pleaded for help.

And those low, desperate groans from the Reaper.

He walked to the evidence wall, studying the tapestry of photographs and documents that had been fixed there. This time, a body didn’t take centre stage. A map dominated the space, a red pin placed in the killer’s murder rooms, a green one in the properties that had been on Karen’s list, those that had been searched and cleared. They must have run out of pins at that point, because somebody had rammed a fork into the location of Gideon’s house.

He swept his eyes over the board, trying to work out what he was missing. He landed on a photograph of Gideon that somebody had tacked there. It looked like it had been pulled from the website of the school where he taught, because he posed in a grey suit and a blue tie. His shaved head and his immense build were the same, but the smile on his face made him look like a completely different person to the one Kett had met on the train.

It made him look human.

Still, there was something in his small eyes, in the shape of his mouth, that made Kett feel uncomfortable.

That’s what was nagging at him, he realised.

“Hang on a second,” he started, and he stopped when he spotted Savage walking through the door. In one hand, she held the giant purple teapot that Porter had given her at the wedding yesterday, several mugs rattling in the other one.

“Tea!” said Kett. “I haven’t had a cup all day.”

She dropped the lot onto an empty desk beside them.

“Figured we could do with a pick-me-up,” she said, tapping the pot. “And this thing came in handy after all.”

“Didn’t bring you much luck on your big day,” Porter said sadly.

Savage let the tea steep.

“You had a thought?” she asked, nodding to the wall.

“Yeah,” said Kett. “We think Gideon met his victims at their support groups, right? He’s meeting them at therapy sessions for people who have been close to death. Kathryn.”

He pointed to the Sutton girl.

“Car accident. Lina, aneurysm. Patrick, nearly got blown up in Afghanistan. They all survived, they all went to these sessions to help them deal with the guilt of that. That’s how he identifies his victims.”

Porter and Savage both nodded.

“But meeting them there is one thing. How does he get them to trust him?”

Porter frowned.

“Look at the guy,” said Kett. “We met him, Pete. I know he was wounded, but he wasn’t exactly charming. He’s nearly seven foot tall, built like a bear. What is it that people see in him? What makes them want to go with him?”

Kett tapped another photograph, the blurry shot of the black-clothed rider on the Ducati. Marla was on the back, her hands around his waist, her head resting on his spine.

“It’s not adding up,” he said. “Gideon’s got the Jaguar, and his vans, but he picks people up on a motorbike. Why do they climb on the back? That’s an exercise in trust in itself.”

“He’s a teacher,” said Savage. “He knows how to speak to young people. He knows how to gain their trust.”

She didn’t look sure, though, and she spoke on.

“But you’re right. Seven foot tall, maybe four foot wide. I know it’s not a good picture, but that doesn’t even look like it could be him.”

“I know for a fact that tall guys struggle on bikes,” said Duke, walking over. “I can never get my legs right.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Porter, stretching upwards. “Really uncomfortable.”

The smell of tea was overpowering, strong enough to drive Kett into a frenzy.

“That ready?” he asked, his throat bone dry.

“I’ll be Mum,” said Duke, his arms trembling as he reached for the mugs.

“I’ll do it,” said Savage. She tipped the pot, a flow of sweet-scented tea filling the closest cup. She’d already added the milk. “And we know that it’s not a boyfriend, because Enid said Marla was picked up by the same person. Black Ducati. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

She filled three more cups, shaking off the drips.

“Kathryn’s still not talking?” asked Kett.

“No,” said Savage. “She’s not doing so good, sepsis set in overnight.”

“What about the man from the barn?”

She shook her head.

“That’s definitely not Gideon,” said Porter, looking at the photo of the motorcyclist. “No way.”

“Then that’s our priority,” said Savage. “Working out who that is. Help yourselves.”

They all did, grateful for a moment’s peace. Kett sat on the edge of the desk, breathing in the fragrant steam, so excited to take the first sip that he’d swallowed it before he detected the aftertaste: something acidic, with a hint of ammonia. He grimaced, recoiling so hard that tea sloshed over his crotch. He jumped up, spilling even more of it over himself.

“What’s wrong, sir?” said Savage, alarmed.

“What’s that taste?” he said, dropping the mug onto the desk. “It’s like… I hate to say it, Kate, because your tea making skills are usually fine. But it tastes like piss.”

Savage pulled a face, lowering her mug. Porter sniffed his, frowning. Undeterred, Duke took a big gulp.

“Can’t taste anything,” said the PC.

“That’s because the Red Bull has stripped your taste buds,” said Kett. “It’s weird.”

“I can smell it, sir,” said Savage. “It’s definitely not the tea, I opened a fresh box.”

“It’s the pot,” said Kett, glaring at Porter. “Where did you get it, Pete?”

“Oh, right,” said Porter. “I found it in Mum’s garage. We’re clearing out a load of stuff, because of the rats.”

Duke lifted his mug for another sip, but Savage grabbed his arm, never taking her eyes off Porter.

“Rats?” she said.

“Only a few of them,” he said. “They’ve been nesting everywhere, making a right mess.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Kett, furiously rubbing his hand over his lips.

“I washed it!” said Porter, gesturing to the pot. “Twice! I don’t think they were living in it or anything.”

“You don’t think they were?” said Kett. “Unbelievable, Pete! Forget the tossing case, we’re all going to die of Weil’s disease.”

“Now you sound like Clare, sir,” said Porter.

“Bloody soaked as well,” he said, his damp crotch like the straw that broke the camel’s back. He genuinely felt like he was close to tears.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Porter.

Duke was still trying to drink the tea. Savage forcibly removed the cup from his hands, placing it on the desk.

“That was the last of the milk as well,” she said, shooting an uncharacteristically angry look at Porter.

“And the tea’s the least of our problems,” said Kett.

He turned to the wall, to the image of the motorbike.

“If that isn’t Gideon, we’re in a whole world of shit.”

He looked at the team, their exhausted faces reflecting his own expression of misery.

“Because it means Gideon wasn’t working alone,” he said. “He’s got an accomplice.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kett drove home, telling the team that he needed to change his clothes. This was true, of course. It wasn’t just the tea, it was everything. His suit was ravaged by two days of hell, his trainers caked in filth. He knew he reeked, but he hadn’t realised how bad it was until he walked through the front door and went to hug his wife.

“No!” said Billie, recoiling like he’d come at her with a bat. “No, no, no.”

Evie and Moira appeared in the living room door, cheering at his arrival. They ran at him, arms out, then they must have hit a wall of smell because their cheers turned to screams. Moira fell to the floor, her hands to her throat like she was choking. Evie ran behind her mum like she thought Kett might be somebody else, a stranger in her father’s skin.

Even Colin the Staffy did a one-eighty when she sniffed him, skittering through the door with her stubby tail between her legs.

“Why does Dadda smell so bad?” asked Evie. “Why has he peed himself?”

“He’s old,” said Moira from the floor.

“I’m not old,” said Kett, trying to cover the stain on his trousers. “It’s tea. I’ve just come to change.”

“And have a shower,” said Billie.

He checked his watch.

“I’m not sure there’s time,” he said.

“And have a shower,” she repeated. “That wasn’t a question.”

He didn’t argue, stripping off in the bathroom and running the water. He turned it to cold, grateful for the shock as he stepped beneath the flow. This was the real reason he’d stepped away from the bullpen, to find space; the time to breathe, the peace to let himself think.

The worst cases were like that, like quicksand. The more you tried to pull free, to view it from the outside, see it clearly, the more they sucked you in. If you weren’t careful, you ended up drowning in the details, blind and deaf.

You ended up buried alive.

Sometimes, you had to back off before you could move forward, you had to force yourself to move away. Here, in the brutal cold, in the blissful quiet, Kett could start to see the patterns in the madness.

There was every chance that Gideon had an accomplice. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. That many victims, across two or more murder rooms. If nothing else, it was a logistical nightmare. The Reaper needed a copilot.

But who would help a madman like him? Who would commit themselves to death, with or without a capital D? Murderers sometimes worked in packs. He’d seen it for himself, all the way back in the Paper Girls case: three men competing with each other to kidnap and kill. Hollenbeck, too, a cult of criminals driven by the sport of it. But it was so rare for genuine serial killers to work together, because they were isolated by their ideologies. No two belief systems were the same, because no two pathologies were the same.

Unless Gideon had brainwashed his associate, that was.

Maybe that was what the room in the basement had been designed for. Not for Gideon, but for whoever was working with him? The drugs, too. Big doses of ketamine were perfect for knocking out your victims, letting you stitch them to their frames. But smaller doses did other things, over time. Erasing the ability to think rationally, blurring the lines between what was real, and what wasn’t.

He’d seen that too, during the events they’d dubbed the Bad Dog case: Eden Howarth, reduced to a mindless, violent animal through years of drugs, abuse and mental conditioning.

And it wasn’t like Gideon didn’t have access to corruptible young minds. He was a teacher. He’d worked in schools for years. It would have been easy enough to isolate a vulnerable child, to groom them and manipulate them until they were swallowed whole by the man’s insane worldview. Gideon wasn’t your typical cult leader. He didn’t have the charisma or the magnetism of somebody like the Hateful Thing. But he’d had the blunt force of belief, and a lot of time to hammer it home.

And death was power, which was intoxicating in its own right, especially to somebody who was powerless.

It wasn’t even like Gideon was training somebody to be evil. In his eyes, he was doing his victims a kindness, he was allowing them access to Paradise when life had denied them passage. He’d believed in his own benevolence, and anyone working with him might have been convinced that as awful as these deeds were, they were acts of mercy. Theirs was a particularly cruel form of kindness.

“Shit,” he said, pushing his face into the water, feeling breathless from the cold.

A mentee, then. Somebody who followed Death, making a record of his acts. That was why the films had felt like a college project, because whoever was making them was much younger than Gideon, maybe fresh out of school.

Maybe in school.

Was this person the rider on the motorbike, the one they’d seen in the photographs? Somebody younger, somebody who attended the survivors’ guilt groups, who gained the trust of the victims. Somebody who lured them towards Death, who carried them to their fate on the back of a Ducati.

There was a chance that whoever the associate was, they’d been coerced. Like Billie had, and the rest of the Pig Man’s playthings—stay with me, or I go after your children, Schofield had told her, my three little pigs. In that case, with Gideon dead, they were free now. With any luck, they’d come straight to the police, or at least anonymously report the locations of the victims.

But what if they’d followed him by choice? What if they believed? In that case, they’d be willing to carry on his acts alone. Maybe they’d trained for it. Maybe they were ready to take on the mantle of the Reaper.

Gideon’s death might not be the end of it.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he said.

He switched off the shower, wrapping himself in a towel. He was shivering, his teeth chattering like a wind-up toy, and it wasn’t entirely because of the cold.

Billie, bless her, had laid out a fresh suit for him on the bed, complete with a shirt and underwear. She stood by the window, looking out onto the street, and he knew what she was going to say even before she’d turned to say it.

“It’s bad?”

“It’s bad,” he said. “Maybe the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Worse than him?” she asked, and he considered it for a moment.

“No,” he said. “Nothing’s worse than Schofield.”

“But he’s dead?” she asked, sitting on the bed while he dressed. “I saw the news.”

Kett nodded, buttoning his trousers.

“There’s more than one?” she said, reading his mind.

“I don’t know,” he told her. “He took a lot of people, Billie. We haven’t found them all. I think they might still be alive, but time’s running out.”

“You’ll find them.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It feels impossible.”

She passed him his shirt, and when he went to take it, she took his hand, holding tight. Her fingers felt as warm as fire.

“You found me,” she said. “You never gave up, and you found me.”

He nodded, and she let go.

“Any news about Colin?”

“He’s alive,” Kett told her. “He’s fighting.”

She offered him a tired smile.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said. “Anything’s possible after a cuppa and a biscuit.”

He followed her down a few minutes later, fastening his watch as he entered the kitchen. There was no sign of Billie, but Evie and Moira sat at the table, their faces smeared with chocolate and guilt. They froze as soon as they saw him, on the verge of giggles.

“What have you done?” he asked them.

“Nothing,” said Moira in a spray of crumbs, and Evie burst out laughing, almost falling off her chair.

Kett gave them a bemused look as he walked to the counter, where two mugs of tea sat. He picked up one, even though it was far too hot, holding it to his nose. Thankfully, it didn’t smell of rat piss. He turned back to his girls to see them chewing ferociously on something, but they stopped as soon as they caught him looking.

“What?” he said, peering past them to an empty plate on the table. “Were they my biscuits?”

Their eyes widened, and Moira jumped off her chair, running out of the door.

“Evie made me do it!” she yelled.

“I did not!” Evie shouted back, almost losing a chunk of chocolate digestive. “You made me do it!”

She ran after her sister, both of them laughing as they thundered up the stairs.

“Don’t choke!” he shouted after them.

Billie walked in, fixing up her hair.

“What’s up with those two?” she said.

“Biscuit thieves,” Kett told her, nodding to the empty plate.

“Those little… They’ve already eaten half the pack.”

Kett laughed, taking a sip of his tea and feeling it burn into his stomach. Billie took the other one, cradling it against her chest. She was perfectly framed against the bifold doors, the amber light pooling at her feet and caught in her hair, as if the day worshipped her.

This was what he wanted. This was all he needed.

A happy life. A safe life.

But that’s all anyone wanted. That’s what Kathryn had wanted, and Lina, and Marla.

It was a choice, he knew. He either found his own happiness, or he helped the victims find theirs.

He didn’t think he could do both.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Billie.

“You don’t want to know,” he said. He knocked back the tea, even though it hurt. Then he kissed his wife on the forehead and walked to the door. “I love you, Billie. Don’t wait up.”

His wife was right. A cup of tea made anything seem possible, even if somebody else had eaten his biscuits.

He felt refreshed as he walked back into the bullpen, his head screwed on, his thoughts focussed. He found Savage and Porter where he’d left them, in the Incident Room. There was no sign of Duke, or the evil teapot.

“You look better, sir,” said Savage.

“I feel it,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Nowhere,” said Porter. “No hits on the Jag, no hits on the bike. The search teams are going over the locations on the list again, looking for basements we might have missed, any hidden rooms, but so far, no luck. Starting to think he only had two kill rooms.”

“Which doesn’t bode well for any other victims,” said Savage.

“Has anyone been in touch with that woman again? The auction one?”

“Karen?” said Savage. “Yeah, I spoke with her earlier, asked if she knew of any other locations Gideon might have been using. She said she’d have a think, but we haven’t heard back. I can check?”

Kett didn’t answer, feeling the heat of the room start to pull him back in, the weight of the case burying him in the wet sand of confusion.

“I don’t think Gideon was working alone,” he said. “I think he had a helper, someone he’s groomed, possibly one of the kids he taught.”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Savage. “He feels like a loner. Everything he did, it was about maintaining order. That kind of killer doesn’t give up control, especially not to a child. They don’t have helpers, either.”

“But the sheer amount of work involved,” said Kett. “Nobody could do that alone, not when you’re working full time as a teacher, not when you’re trying to convince the world you’re a normal human being.”

She still looked doubtful.

“Spalding got through to the head teacher at the school while you were gone,” she said. “Told us Gideon’s not been at work since Christmas. She said it was health issues, mental health, but I get the feeling they gave him a push. She said they had no plans to bring him back.”

“So he had all the time in the world,” said Porter. “Hay thinks the other guy from the barn has been stone cold dead for four months, give or take. April. The guy in the church in the woods died about the same time, maybe a little after. She’s not sure, because they deteriorated at different speeds. The ones he buried go back further, maybe the beginning of the year.”

“And there’s another problem with your theory,” said Savage. “We’ve got Gideon’s phone records, house and mobile. No calls in, other than his work and a handful of cold callers. No calls out. No texts.”

“He had a laptop in the house,” said Porter. “No emails, but plenty of stuff on his browser history. Google searches about how to get to heaven, about what kind of relationship Death has with God, about the Grim Reaper’s favourite foods. It’s an encyclopaedia of weirdness.”

There was a knock on the Incident Room door, a PC.

“My God, is it hot enough in here?” she asked, fanning herself with a brown envelope. “Forensics found these in the suspect’s house, thought you’d want to see them.”

She held out the envelope, and it took Kett a few moments to work up the courage to take it.

“Cara told me to tell you she found it upstairs in a spare bedroom, hidden beneath a mattress,” she added. “And she said you’ll need to gird your loins.”

Kett peeled open the sealed envelope, tipping the contents onto the empty desk at the front of the room. He’d told himself to expect death, to expect ruined flesh, screaming faces.

In the end, though, he saw something worse.

He saw himself.

“What?” he said.

There he was, a newspaper clipping from May, from right after the Tin Soldiers case. Clare sat next to him on one side, the Chief Constable on the other. The photograph had been torn out, no text at all.

“Why the hell does he have that?” said Porter. “And where am I? I was literally right next to the Super. Why did they cut me out?”

Kett pushed the photo to one side to see the sheet of paper beneath it. It looked exactly like the ones they’d found in Gideon’s basement, a single line of text at the top:

Who are you?

But where the same answer had been desperately scrawled on all those other sheets—I am Death—here there was a single word, written in small, almost childlike script.

Gideon.

There was nothing else. That was it.

“He said something, on the train,” said Kett, turning to the clipping again. “He spoke about this. You remember, Pete?”

“Yeah,” said Porter. “He said you’d understand him, because of what you said to the press.”

“The press?” said Savage.

“After the Saint Killer thing,” said Kett. “That bloody conference we had. I was too tired to know what I was saying.”

“I remember that,” said Savage. “You said you understood why Reece did what he did; you told them that all he’d wanted to do was send people into the afterlife, so his son wouldn’t be on his own. I remember thinking how strange it was that you’d spoken like that. Like you almost agreed with what he’d done.”

“I remember the bollocking Clare gave you for it afterwards,” said Porter.

“It was his fault I even said it,” Kett explained. “The day after we caught Reece in the tower, the Super asked me if I thought there was something after this life. I said I hoped there was, if only for the kids who didn’t have much of a shot here. I couldn’t get it out of my head, you know? The thought of it, of what happens to the ones you love, the idea that if they die, they go somewhere, and you might not…”

He had to stop, because it was a struggle to speak past the brick in his throat. He coughed to clear it.

“The thought that you might not be able to find them, or help them. It’s so much worse when you’ve got kids. It’s not like I agreed with what Reece did. But I did believe it, for a while. I can’t even say I wouldn’t have thought it myself. If the girls died… I’d want somebody to be there for them. I’d be there for them, if it came to it.”

“Sir,” said Savage, shaking her head.

“Because you would, wouldn’t you? You give them everything, you’d give them your life, without hesitation.”

“I get it,” said Porter, nodding.

“When we saw Gideon on the train, he said he’d seen me talk, he said I’d understand. That I could help. I think that’s why he brought Kathryn to the wedding, because he didn’t know who else to turn to. Ever since the news conference he’s been watching us, he’s been keeping tabs on where we are.”

“Might have even been from before that, sir,” said Savage. “It’s like we already said, we’ve all escaped death. We might have been on his list.”

Kett’s thoughts were coming undone, tiredness plucking at the stitches. He fought to hold onto them, trying to grasp the thing that was just out of his reach. He looked at the second piece of paper again, that question.

Who are you?

And the Reaper’s true name, written small, as if he’d been trying to hide it.

He had been trying to hide it.

“This was found upstairs?” he asked the PC, who stood by the door.

She nodded.

“Hidden beneath a mattress,” Kett went on. “He kept everything else in the basement, every single thing that made him feel like he was the Grim Reaper. The cloak, the scythe, all his notes, sketches. The artwork, the music, those films. Everything down there is designed for one purpose.”

“To reinforce the delusion that he’s this primal, powerful, mythological figure,” said Savage. “That he’s Death.”

“Exactly. But he keeps this clipping, and this sheet of paper, upstairs, somewhere nobody will see them. Two things, one of them is his real name, the other’s a reminder that…”

“That’s he’s not on his own,” said Savage when he ran out of steam.

“Why?” said Porter.

“Because part of him feels ashamed,” said Savage. “He’s fighting back against the delusions, against his actions. Part of him wants to be normal, wants to be Gideon.”

She didn’t seem sure, and Kett wasn’t either. He closed his eyes, freed his mind. It went to his kids, as it so often did, more so now, because they’d been in his thoughts anyway, the pure terror of losing them. Once upon a time, a million years ago—after the Elsham case—in another conversation with Clare, the Super had asked him how he so often managed to find the answer to a problem in the actions of his children.

Because they’re everything, he’d said. They’re the world. Everything good and everything bad and everything in between is right there, growing in them. The whole of human existence is right there, if you’re prepared to accept it, if you’re brave enough to let yourself see it.

And he thought about them yesterday, singing into the DJ’s microphones at the wedding. He saw them this morning, laughing their heads off as they stole his biscuits.

Moira made me do it!

No, Evie made me do it!

And it clicked, the thing he’d been missing. It hit him so hard he almost doubled up.

“Wait,” he said, holding a hand up like he was trying to snatch the thought out of the air. “Wait a minute, I think we got it wrong. Gideon wasn’t working alone, but he doesn’t have an apprentice, he’s not making somebody else commit these crimes.”

He looked at Savage, seeing the same revelation dawn in her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Somebody was forcing him to do it. Somebody else was in control, somebody else was trying to convince Gideon that he was Death, manipulating him into killing. But that means…”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish, so Kett did it for her.

“The puppet’s dead, but the person pulling the strings is still out there.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They went back to the evidence with a vengeance, throwing themselves at the reams of paperwork they’d found in Gideon’s basement.

The revelation they’d had was so obvious that Kett didn’t know how they’d missed it. It took Savage less than ten minutes to find the first clue. She came running over to Kett with one of the DVDs from the locker, dropping it onto his desk.

“The handwriting, sir,” she said, pointing to the letters and numbers that had been written there in red marker. “It’s not Gideon’s. Not even close.”

Kett dropped one of the man’s letters next to the disc, comparing the script and seeing instantly that she was right.

“Somebody else wrote it, which means somebody else made it,” she said. “I don’t think Gideon was filming his crimes at all, I think somebody else was, and they were sending him the footage.”

“Shit,” said Kett. “There were envelopes under the workbench. Remember?”

“Black ones,” said Savage, nodding.

“Where are they?”

Porter found them a quarter of an hour later, the binbags sitting in an empty office.

“It’s a miracle the cleaners weren’t here,” he said as he dropped one by Kett’s feet. “They’d have thrown them out.”

“Clear a space,” said Kett, waiting for everyone to move out of the way before he upended the bag on the floor of the bullpen.

The padded envelopes came out like dead fish, slapping to the ground. Kett used his boot to separate them as best he could, searching for anything that stood out. But they were all identical, the flaps ripped open, their contents long gone. Savage had found a set of evidence gloves, and she dropped onto her knees for a closer look.

“Somebody was sending Gideon the sheets of paper,” said Kett. “The discs. Probably the drugs, too. No address on these, so hand-delivered. There are, what, a hundred of them? They must have been doing this for months.”

“Or longer, sir,” said Savage, peering into one of the envelopes. “How long does it take to corrupt somebody like that? Eden was locked in that box for years.”

“I was thinking about him earlier,” said Kett. “The bad dog. This is different, because Gideon had a choice. He didn’t have to watch the films, he didn’t have to take the ket, he didn’t have to answer the questions they sent him.”

“But they knew he would,” said Savage. “Because they knew his history. They knew about his mother, about his childhood, about the delusions he’d been wrestling with his whole life. He wasn’t chosen at random; they picked him because they knew he was an easy target.”

“Okay,” said Kett. “So it’s somebody from Gideon’s past. Somebody from school, or a family friend, or… where did he go to university?”

“Cambridge,” said Savage.

“It could be anything,” he said. “We need to make a list of his contacts, as far back as we can go. Especially anyone who had some kind of supervisory role over him, any position of power.”

“On it,” said Porter, heading off.

“And they have to be local,” Kett went on. “Somebody’s putting these envelopes through Gideon’s letterbox, they’re not going to want to drive far for that, not if they’re doing it regularly. He’s remote, there’s not much else around there. See if we can find doorbell cameras, CCTV, anything from nearby.”

“I’ve already started,” said Spalding, who was listening from her desk. “There’s a farm half a mile up the road with CCTV on the gate. I was looking for the Jaguar, no joy there, but I’ve made a list of everything else that passed in the last couple of weeks.”

“Good,” said Kett, feeling a rush of optimism. “This is good, this is getting us somewhere. Anything there, Kate?”

“No,” she said, moving another envelope to the pile she was making on the floor. “But these aren’t the kind of envelopes you get in Smith’s, are they? They’re the wrong size for the paper that Gideon was receiving, for one. These are the kind you’d buy to send DVDs in.”

“They were sending DVDs,” said Kett.

“In slipcases, not boxes. It just feels like, I don’t know, like whoever’s sending them isn’t picking an envelope because it’s the right size. It’s more like they’re using whatever they’ve got to hand.”

“Hang on,” said Kett. “Hang on a minute. I saw a bunch of DVDs earlier, blank ones, in boxes.”

He clicked his fingers, trying to think back through the fog of his exhaustion. He saw the boxes, the shelf.

The tiny bedroom in Simon Garrison’s flat.

“Shit,” he said, the buzz of excitement fading. “It was just the wedding photographer, when I paid him a visit about leaking the photos to the press, whenever it was.”

That morning, he realised, even though it felt like weeks ago.

“It can’t be him,” he said. “That’s too much of a coincidence. You booked him for the wedding weeks ago, right?”

“Months, sir,” said Savage. “Duke was on it, he did most of the planning to be honest. I think he arranged the photographer last year.”

“Before the Tin Soldiers case,” said Kett.

“But Gideon might have had us on his list before then,” she went on. “If he’d chosen us because of the whole escaping death thing. The timeline still works. I can call Aaron and ask him?”

“No need,” said Kett, spotting the big PC looming over the crowd.

Duke squeezed through the sea of detectives, almost stepping on the envelopes before Savage flapped him back.

“How’s it going, Sarge?” he asked, scratching at his enormous chin. His moustache had drooped in the heat like a sad caterpillar, one end lower than the other.

“You booked the photographer, Aaron,” said Savage. “When was it?”

“The wedding photographer?” he said. “Yeah, like, ages ago.”

“How did you find him?” asked Kett.

“He was in the magazine, the posh one. Norfolk Magazine, whatever it’s called. I always buy their wedding specials, for my scrapbook.”

“You called him?”

“Emailed,” said Duke. “Paid a deposit at Christmas. Why?”

“His name’s Simon Garrison, right?”

Duke shrugged.

“He’s called Artichoke,” he said.

“Arty Choke?” said Savage.

“No, like the fruit,” said the PC.

“Fruit?” said Kett.

“He means the plant,” said Savage. “Artichoke Photos. That was his company name, I remember now.”

“But you don’t know his real name?” said Kett, the alarm bells starting to ring. “You never met him?”

“I did meet him,” said Duke, frowning. “At the wedding. In the woods. With you.”

“Hang on,” said Kett. “Did anyone see Simon before Kathryn got dumped at the church?”

Duke looked at Savage, both shaking their heads.

“Why?” said the PC.

“Find me his number, Aaron,” said Kett. “Now.”

Duke pulled out his phone, scrolling. Kett pulled out his, too, his thumb on Clare’s name before he remembered—another icy jolt to his heart. He called Control instead.

“Can you send out a couple of patrol cars to Clackson Grove, out by Heigham Street, in the city, the block right at the end. Top floor flat, number fourteen. We’re looking for a white guy, in his twenties, Simon Garrison. Tattoos. Looks like he’s in a boyband.”

“Can do,” came the reply. “You want him arrested?”

“Only if he kicks off,” he said. “Just keep him there. But tell them to be careful.”

He hung up, seeing that Duke was holding out his phone. ‘Awesome wedding photo dude’ was the name of the contact on the screen. Kett took it, making the call, almost biting off his lip in frustration.

“Hullo?” came the answer, and that one word, spoken in a broad Scottish accent, was all it took to make his heart sink.

“My name’s Robert Kett,” he said. “I’m calling from Norfolk Constabulary. Who is this?”

“Daniel,” came the reply, although some of the friendliness had gone.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Aye, why?”

“You were supposed to attend a wedding yesterday, out near the coast. Kate Savage and Aaron Duke.”

“Listen, pal,” said Daniel, and he definitely wasn’t friendly now, “I was there, I was all set to take the photos. It’s not my fault that prick sent me home.”

“What prick?” said Kett.

“The gangly fud with his bollocks showing through his trousers,” he said. “The one with the ear hairs. He was on me the second I walked through the door, told me nae to bother because he was taking the photies.”

“Hang on,” said Kett. “Was his name Colin?”

“I dinnae give a shite what his name was,” said Daniel. “But he was police n’all, flashed his badge, told me to get tossed. I’d better still be getting paid for it, pal, I was there.”

“What time was this?”

“Early,” he said. “I arrived before the bride and groom, to set up. He was the only one in the church, him and the priest. He was telling him to go home n’all. Must’ve been drunk off his arse.”

Kett killed the call, squeezing the phone so hard it might have cracked.

“It’s him,” he said, realising his monumental cock-up. “It’s Simon. We saw him when we were evacuating the church, on the track out the back. He had a camera and… I just assumed he was the photographer.”

He pushed his hand to his forehead, the heat making him feel feverish.

“He must have followed Gideon from the murder room to the church,” he said. “If he was filming, he’d have seen it happen. He might have even been there with them, with Kathryn, when she pulled herself free.”

“Gideon was having doubts,” said Savage, her knees clicking as she stood up. “We know that already. His whole worldview was based around the idea that he was helping these people, that they were trapped on Earth when they should have been at peace, in heaven. But he was having doubts, he was keeping them alive. If Kathryn really managed to free herself, maybe that was enough to shatter the entire delusion. He snaps out of it, drives her to the church.”

“Because he knows we’re there,” said Kett. “Because he knows I’m there. That’s…”

“Insane,” said Duke, and nobody argued with him.

“So Simon followed Gideon from the murder room, saw him drop Kathryn on the lane,” said Kett. “There were too many people for him to do anything, but enough of a crowd for him to blend in. He posed as a photographer. Although… how did he have a camera?”

He knew the answer as soon as he’d spoken it.

“The filming,” he said. “Christ, he brought his equipment from the murder room, stripped it out because he knew that at some point we’d find it. That’s why he had his kit with him, that’s why we all assumed he was there for the wedding. We wrote his alibi for him. And…”

The sudden terror hit him.

“Christ, he had a girl with him yesterday. And this morning. Darcey. He… What if he was going to take her to Gideon, his next victim? What if he’s going to kill her?”

He saw the girl’s face. She’d been twenty-one, but she’d looked younger. She’d barely looked older than Alice.

He started moving, trampling the envelopes as he ran for the exit.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We might not be too late. Somebody grab Pete, we’ll take a car.”

He broke into a run, almost knocking over a couple of detectives who were walking through the bullpen door. Savage followed, overtaking him as they made their way down the corridor. They’d only just made it to the carpool, Savage pulling out her warrant card for the Traka cabinet, when Kett’s phone rang.

“Yeah?” he said when he answered, clattering to a halt.

“This is Control,” said the voice. “Response unit is at the flat. It’s empty.”

“Shit,” he said. “They’re sure?”

“Yeah,” said the woman. “But they found something else.”

Kett knew what they were going to say, because it couldn’t have been anything else. He thought of Darcey, so young, so vulnerable. She’d told both him and Simon that she was leaving the flat that morning, but she hadn’t—hadn’t been able to, maybe. He tried not to imagine what might have happened to her.

What might have happened the second he’d closed the door.

Savage watched him, her face full of grief, while the woman on the line spoke the inevitable:

“They found blood. A lot of blood.”

Savage drove the IRV into the car park of Simon’s estate twenty minutes later, parking it behind the three that were already there. Kett opened his door, ignoring the pain in his back as he climbed out. The heat of the afternoon engulfed him like he was standing beneath a launching rocket.

There were a couple of constables waiting by the stairs, both standing to attention as he limped up.

“You found him?” he asked.

The woman shook her head as the man answered.

“No sign of him, sir. Or the girl. We’re searching the estate, knocking on doors, but nobody’s seen him.”

“CCTV?” asked Porter as he walked up.

“Plenty of cameras,” said the PC. “None of them are working.”

“Fuck’s sake,” said Kett.

He climbed the stairs, heading for the open door of Simon’s flat. There was another constable waiting just inside, and she held up a hand to slow him down.

“Watch your feet, sir,” she said. “Forensics’ll want this intact.”

He glanced down, seeing half of a bloody footprint on the laminate floor. There was another one further down, and a line of crimson droplets between them. Somebody had left a streak of blood on the wall as well, all the way from the bedroom to the front door.

“Christ,” he said.

He stepped over the evidence like he was playing hopscotch, heading for the back of the flat. One glance into the bedroom told him everything he needed to know. Where Darcey had sat, just hours ago, there was a puddle of gore. The blood had soaked into the duvet, and the mattress below, more spattered over the walls. Not even the ceiling had escaped.

A kitchen knife lay on the floor.

He peeked into the room next door, the office. It was the same as it had been earlier, apart from one thing: the shelf of DVDs had been cleared out.

“Goddamnit,” he said, turning to see Savage framed in the front door. “I was right here, I had him.”

“Sir?” came a voice from behind Savage, accompanied by a lot of barking. “Sarge?”

Kett made his way back into the day to see a constable outside the next flat along. Savage had already made her way over, and he joined her there. A woman in her twenties stood in the door, holding it half closed to stop what sounded like a wolf from coming out of it. The dog was growling so deeply that Kett thought he could feel the vibrations through the floor.

“This is Amelia Wickwar,” said the PC. “She’s the neighbour. She saw Simon leave this morning.”

“I didn’t see him,” said the woman, fiddling with a long, silver earring. She was wearing her underwear and a vest, and she still looked like she was roasting inside the flat. “Heard him.”

The dog started scratching on the door, and she kicked back.

“Cena, piss off! Fucking thing.”

“You heard him?” asked Kett.

“Yeah. Kept me up all night, the twat. Heard them arguing at the crack of dawn, him and some woman. Might as well not be any walls here, for all the good they do. You can hear a mouse fart in the flat next door.”

“You’re sure they were arguing?” said Kett.

“Well she wasn’t screaming like she was enjoying herself, if you know what I mean. Cena! That’s enough!”

Amelia kicked back again, baring her teeth at the dog.

“I swear to God, all men are arseholes, even when they’ve got four legs.”

“Somebody was screaming?” said Savage.

“Yeah, proper screaming. I was gonna bang on the wall, but it stopped after a bit. They were clattering around for a while, though. Did my fucking head in, woke the dog up. That’s why he’s acting so weird, because of the noise.”

And the blood, thought Kett. The dog must have been able to smell it.

“Can you remember what time this was?” he asked. “Exactly?”

“No,” she said with a shrug. “Was pretty out of it. On the temazepam, aren’t I? Only way I can survive this place, survive having that prick as a neighbour. Must have passed clean out again. I was knackered. Wanker already woke me up once, you know, banging at the door. Five in the morning, that was. Twat.”

That hadn’t been Simon, Kett realised, it had been him. The sun had just been coming up when he’d visited the flat that morning.

“So the screaming came after the knock on the door?” said Kett.

“I don’t fucking know,” she said, tugging on her earring. “Just know I didn’t get a wink, and I’m a nightmare without my sleep. But yeah, knocking, then a little bit after that was the screaming, then something else woke me after that.”

“You remember what?” asked Kett.

Amelia shook her head.

“Why is he a bad neighbour?” asked Savage. “The noise?”

“Yeah, and the rest,” said the young woman. “I’ve only been here a couple of months, had to move out my last flat because of the dealers, and now I’ve got fucking Ron Jeremy next door.”

“Who?” said Kett.

“Porn star,” she said. “Or wants to be, anyway. You know the first time he saw me he asked me if I wanted to get naked for him, make a bit of cash. Said he could launch my career, make me millions. On OnlyFans or some shit. Said people paid more for the hard stuff, and wouldn’t you know, he offered to help me out with that too. Pervert.”

“Do you know much about the girl who was there last night?” said Kett. “Darcey?”

“I know she’ll be happier if she gets away from him,” said Amelia. “She’s been with him a while. Since I got here, anyway. But every time she goes out, he has some other girl round. They show up, he takes off with them for a day or so. Can’t make much of an impression, though, because they never come back again. He thinks he’s all that, and he’s alright, you know? Like, if I saw him, I’d look twice. Then he opens his mouth and your skin crawls right off you. Won’t be long before that girl fucks off as well.”

Too late, thought Kett.

“I like a bad boy,” Amelia went on. “All the girls do, and he had the bike, too…”

She rolled her eyes.

“That’s what it was,” she said. “That’s what woke me this morning, after everything else. That fucking bike.”

“Motorbike?” asked Kett. “Black one?”

“Yeah,” she said. “The thing’s like a plane, you can hear it from the other end of the estate. Got to be his, because I’ve seen him with his helmet. Thinks he’s God’s gift, he does.”

She flapped her foot at the barking dog one more time.

“Right after the screaming this morning,” she said, “right after all the clattering and shouting and the knocking and this twat barking his head off, that’s what woke me up, that bloody bike.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

It wasn’t hard to see which garage the Ducati had been kept in; it was the only one with the door still open.

Kett ducked inside, although he didn’t know why he was bothering. There was nothing in here except for a metal shelf against the far wall and a massive oil stain on the floor. There were three sets of registration plates on the top shelf, front and back, and he picked up the one on top, holding it out for Savage to see.

“He’s swapping them out,” he said. “No wonder we can’t keep tabs on the bike.”

“I’ll run them, sir,” she said.

“No need,” said Porter, stepping through the garage door. He had his phone in his hand, and he passed it over. “It’s Spalding.”

“Alison,” said Kett. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”

“Yes and no,” she said. “I made a list of every plate that passed the CCTV at the farm near Gideon’s house. They only hold footage for five days, and there were more vehicles than I expected. But the good news is one of the plates also got logged by an ANPR this morning. The plate’s registered to a white van, but I checked it, and it’s our rider.”

“The Ducati?”

“Yeah, the Ducati. Black jacket, black helmet. The camera’s on the A140, and they were caning it up towards Hevingham just before eight.”

“Was he alone?”

“Nobody on the bike with him, sir,” said Spalding.

That wasn’t exactly surprising. Darcey couldn’t have been in any state to hold on.

“The A140, that’s the Cromer Road,” said Kett. “There were a couple of abandoned properties out that way, right?”

“Way ahead of you,” said Spalding. “There are four of them from the list a stone’s throw from the A140. Search teams are at the first now, I’ll text you the others.”

“Gideon was heading that way on the train,” said Kett. “This has to be right. We got a profile on Simon yet?”

“I’ve only got two bloody hands, sir,” she snapped, hanging up.

“He was going north, first thing this morning,” said Kett, heading out of the stuffy garage into the stuffier day. He handed Porter back his phone. “Same direction that Gideon was going. No sign of Darcey on the bike, which means she could still be here somewhere. Crack these garages, Pete, all of them, just in case.”

Porter nodded, running off. Kett heard his phone buzz, pulling it out to see a text from Spalding.

“Buxton, Colby, Oulton, Sustead,” he said, reading it aloud. “Those are the properties on Karen’s list that are anywhere near the A140.”

“We’ve searched them all, sir,” said Savage. “Teams were there today. There was no sign of Simon or the bike at any of them.”

“Then we’re missing something,” he said.

The heat was so intense that he felt his brain simmering, like soup in a pan. He set off for the shade, rounding the corner of the block and seeing the car park ahead. He looked at the stairs that led to Simon’s flat.

“Where is she?” he asked. “Where’s Darcey? It was light when I left them this morning. If Simon attacked her, he would have had to drag her body down the stairs and put her somewhere. It’s not like he can sling her over the back of his bike. Somebody must have seen him.”

“Unless he’s got a car as well,” said Savage, her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. “A van or something. Gideon had a few vehicles at his place, and they weren’t all registered. Simon could be using one of them. He puts Darcey in the car, drives her somewhere. To one of his kill rooms, maybe, if she’s still alive. Then he comes back for his bike.”

If that was true, then the chances were they’d never find the girl, dead or alive.

Kett swore, heading for the IRV.

“I can’t believe I missed it,” he said. “Simon’s the perfect guy to pull in targets. He’s young, he’s handsome, he’s charismatic. He must have been going to the survivors’ meetings, talking to the victims. Lina, Kathryn, even Patrick. He makes friends with them, offers them a glimpse of something good, something positive. He picks them up on his bike, then hand-delivers them to Gideon.”

“I agree with all that, sir,” said Savage, her face creased into a frown. “But do you think Simon’s capable of corrupting a man like Gideon? If you’re right, and somebody was moulding Gideon to be a killer, if they were pulling his strings…”

She shrugged.

“Simon doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could destroy somebody’s mind like that. Too young, too full of himself. Unless it’s all a show?”

Kett leaned on the roof of the car, instantly regretting it as the hot metal seared his skin through his shirt. He pulled away, pacing.

“Simon’s had plenty of practice manipulating people,” he said. “He’s been talking girls into taking off their clothes for God knows how long. Gideon’s already on the edge, all he needs is a push. Simon’s got the camera kit, he knows how to make the films, he’s probably been chipping away at Gideon’s sanity for years. Could have been one of his students.”

“But why, sir?” said Savage. “What’s he getting out of it?”

“What do any of them get out of it?” he replied. “You tell me, Kate, you’re the expert.”

“I’m really not,” she said, turning to the block of flats. “Power, I guess? Having somebody completely under your control. Or chaos. Some people just want to see the world catch fire. I can’t get my head around this one.”

Kett’s phone rang, and he pulled it out.

“Alison,” he said, putting it on speaker. “What have you got?”

“A headache,” she replied. “And a profile. Simon Garrison, twenty-seven. Local lad, born in Lakenham, went to Lakenham Primary, then CNS. Left Norwich for a couple of years to study media in Birmingham, didn’t finish his degree. Set up a company when he came back, he’s the only director. Listed as a photography studio, but the name’s Lovely Ladies Ltd, so you can guess what he’s photographing.”

“Ew,” said Savage, pulling a face.

“Parents are gone, both died in 2021. Dad passed from a heart attack, mum took her own life three months later. Only child. He inherited the house, sold it to start the business, and to fund a lifestyle: four trips to Thailand between ‘21 and ‘23. From the look of his company accounts, he lost the lot, because he’s not making anything much at all.”

“That fits,” said Savage. “Trauma from his parents, could have driven him to do what he did.”

“His registered addresses are all over the place,” Spalding went on. “Changes every few months. The flat you’re at now isn’t his, it’s the girl’s.”

“Darcey’s?” said Kett.

“Darcey Pratt, she’s twenty-one, she’s been renting it for a year or so.”

“He never said it was his place,” said Savage. “He just gave it as his address. He must have been staying with her.”

“That’s his MO, by the look of things,” said Spalding. “He squats with a girl for a while, then leaves for another one.”

“Any of them our victims?” asked Kett.

“Not that I’ve found, but it’s a long list of addresses on his part, and a longer list of victims on Gideon’s.”

“And we haven’t even found them all,” said Kett.

Duke came bounding around the side of the flats, his arms waving like a drowning man’s.

“I’ll call you back, Alison,” said Kett, ending the call. “What’s up, Aaron?”

“Just came through on the radio, sir,” said Duke, out of breath. He ran his fingers down his sweaty moustache, looking more like a walrus than ever. “Response unit spotted the bike, out near Gunton Park.”

“Seriously?” said Kett. “Simon?”

“Just the bike. They’re holding back, waiting for orders.”

Kett ripped open the door of the IRV.

“Tell them to stay away until we get more units to them,” he said. “Unless they think somebody’s in danger. Get tactical over there.”

“Already on the way,” said Duke, one hand to his radio.

“And somebody find Pete!” yelled Kett, dropping into the insufferable heat.

Savage slid into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. Duke got in the back, slamming his door so hard the windows rattled. They drove towards the exit, almost there when Porter emerged from the side of the building. The DI legged it, looking for a second like he was going to do a full Dukes of Hazzard slide over the bonnet before chickening out and running around. He tried to open the back door, but it was locked.

“Let me in,” he yelled.

Duke leaned over and yanked the handle, the IRV moving again as Porter fell into the back. Whatever he might have said was lost behind the howl of the siren as Savage pulled onto the main road.

“We’ve found the Ducati,” said Kett, feeling his stomach contract as the powerful car accelerated. “Anything in the garages?”

“Plenty,” said Porter, trying to clip in his belt. “But no sign of the girl. Where’s the bike?”

“Gunton,” said Kett.

“There wasn’t anything on our list in Gunton, was there?” said Porter.

“No,” said Savage. “But there’s nothing to say Gideon didn’t find his kill rooms elsewhere. We don’t even know for sure if he used the list.”

She slowed for a red light, pulling across a junction before gunning it up the hill.

“I’m still not feeling it, sir,” she said.

“Simon being behind it?” said Kett. “Takes all sorts, Kate. I never expected it from Reece, either. Never expected it from half the people we’ve arrested over the years. Twenty cases in, though…”

He shook his head, staring out of the window.

“Made me realise everyone’s got a reason to kill, and the ability to do it, if they’re pushed hard enough.”

Including me, he added silently, thinking of his own dead, seeing them through the fogged-up windows. Gaunt faces with dark, accusing eyes.

The ones whose lives he hadn’t managed to save.

And the ones whose lives he’d taken.

They passed another police car as they headed out of the city, and it pulled in behind them, its lights blazing. By the time Savage had swung off the roundabout onto the Cromer Road, she was leading a convoy of four IRVs. They cleaved their way north, Kett ticking off the minutes in silence, far too many of them, before Savage steered them east, pounding down country roads in a storm of dust.

Only when they were closing in on Gunton Park did she switch off the siren. Every vehicle followed suit, the world eerily quiet as they turned the corner and saw the tactical van ahead. It blocked the road, five of Proctor’s AFOs clustered around it in full tactical gear, their rifles clamped to their chests. A couple of PCs stood with them, including Felicity Niven, while an ambulance waited a little further away, no sign of the paramedics. Everyone looked up as Savage slowed to a halt, the sun setting their faces on fire.

Kett got out first, one hand on his lower back as the pain rolled through it.

“You seen him?”

“No,” said Proctor, looking to his left. “But we’ve got a team here, and one on the other side. No chance of him getting out.”

“What are we looking at?” asked Kett.

“Barn,” said Proctor.

“Barns,” said Flick. “Three of them. Viv and I got lucky, we were heading back to the A140 and we spotted the bike in a lean-to as we were driving past. We’d never have seen it if we hadn’t been looking for it.”

“When?” said Kett, walking up to them.

Niven checked her watch.

“Just after four, sir,” she said.

Just after four. Almost an hour ago.

“You haven’t moved in?” he asked Proctor.

“Waiting for you,” said the AFO. “We don’t know what we’re working with, and after last time, after what happened to Healey, I’m not going anywhere blind.”

“I’m surprised you’re going anywhere at all,” said Kett. “Your leg okay?”

“It’ll be okay until this is over,” said the AFO. “I need to finish it.”

Kett made his way around the tactical van and past the ambulance, nodding to the paramedics inside. It was a struggle to see anything past the tall hedges that fringed the narrow lane, and he had to walk a little way before he caught his first glimpse of a brick building a hundred yards away, on the other side of a stubbled field. The roof had partially collapsed, the exposed rafters like skeletal ribs. Two smaller buildings flanked it, both in just as bad a state. Only the rooks seemed to give any sign that something bad had happened there, dozens of them circling the building, the air full of their cries.

“Who are we chasing?” said Proctor, limping up beside him. “I thought you’d bagged your guy.”

“One of them,” said Kett. “He wasn’t working alone. We’re looking for Simon Garrison, white, mid-twenties. Tattoos all over, including a Virgin Mary or something on his throat.”

He paused while Porter held up his phone, showing them a photo of the young man’s smug face.

“He’s almost certainly armed. So be careful.”

“He responsible for what happened to Alan?” said Proctor.

“Yeah,” said Kett. “But we need him alive, Ed, because he’s the only one who knows where our victims are. Understood?”

Proctor didn’t look too happy about it, but he nodded. He wheeled a hand through the air, heading off.

“On me,” he shouted as he went. “And you lot, stay out of the way.”

“Even me?” said Duke, one hand on his holstered Taser.

“Especially you, Groucho,” said Porter.

“Groucho?” said Duke. “I don’t live in a bin.”

“He means Groucho Marx,” said Savage as she watched the tactical team scale the gate. “Not Oscar the Grouch.”

“That moustache should live in a bin,” muttered Porter.

“Enough,” said Kett. “Let’s go.”

They followed at a distance, clambering over the fence into the field. The tactical team moved fast and low, fanning out as they closed in on the barn. More rooks scattered from the furrowed earth, a hurricane of feathers darkening the day.

Once upon a time, Kett hadn’t believed in omens.

All these years on the job, though, and it was hard not to.

He spotted the Ducati as they reached the flank of the barn. It rested inside a narrow outbuilding, draped beneath a blanket of shadow. Only the back plate gave it away, blazing gold. He glanced at the road, which was lost behind the hedges. It was a miracle that Niven had spotted it.

But if they’d ever needed a miracle, it was now.

They slowed down as they fell into the shadow of the barn. Duke inched ahead, his body tense, his hand still resting on the Taser. The AFOs were at the main door, ready to breach. Proctor looked back, waiting for the order to go.

“This still doesn’t feel right, sir,” said Savage, smearing the sweat from her forehead.

Kett studied her worried expression for a moment before turning back to Proctor.

“Move in,” he said. “But be careful. We don’t know anything for sure.”

Proctor nodded.

“Alive, Ed,” Kett shouted. “We need him alive.”

The barn was old, the door barely on its hinges. Proctor pushed through first, his voice surely loud enough to demolish the building.

“Armed police! Armed police!”

In seconds, they were out of sight. Duke moved forward, Porter by his side.

“Aaron, wait,” said Savage, but he didn’t hear her, both men slipping into the dark.

Kett held his ground for a second longer, waiting for the gunshots, for the violence, hearing only the shouts of the team as they cut through the interior. Savage stood beside him, one hand grasping the chain of her silver whistle.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just feel it. Something’s wrong.”

“Like what, Kate? A trap?”

She didn’t answer, and they held their breath for the eternity it took for one of the AFOs to appear again.

“Seems clear, sir,” he said. “But we’ve got a locked door.”

“Always a bloody locked door,” said Kett.

He let Savage go first, following her into the gloomy interior of the barn. The space had been completely gutted, nothing in the first room except grime. A member of the tactical unit was waiting for them in the corridor beyond, waving them on. Kett found the rest of the team when he turned the corner, crowded around a door. Proctor was there, both hands resting on his rifle.

“Locked. How do you want to proceed?”

“Unlock it,” said Kett.

Proctor nodded to one of his team, who ran forward with a pry bar. The AFO jammed it into the old wood, leaned hard, and the lock popped. Somebody else gave the door a kick and it wobbled open, a yawning mouth of darkness.

“On me,” said Proctor. “Armed… Shit!”

He lifted his rifle, the torch flooding the space with light and revealing the shape that rushed towards them from the far side of the room. It was a man, his face covered with a hood. He held a knife in both hands, the point aimed at the tactical team.

“Contact!” Proctor screamed. “On the ground, now! Drop the fucking knife!”

The hooded figure didn’t listen, picking up speed. There was blood over his clothes, over his arms, over his hands.

“Last warning! On the ground!”

The man sprinted towards them, falling in and out of darkness as he crossed the room. He was screaming through his hood. His blade caught the torchlight, long and wickedly sharp.

“Take him down!” yelled Proctor.

“Don’t shoot!” Savage called out, her face alive with panic. “Don’t shoot him!”

He was almost at the door, the knife gleaming. Proctor aimed his rifle at the man’s chest, his finger on the trigger.

“Ed, wait!” yelled Kett.

Proctor tensed, his finger tightening. Kett grabbed his arm, yanking it down just as he took the shot. The bullet tore through the masked man’s hip instead of his heart, spinning him around. He landed on his back, the knife still in his hands. He curled into himself in pain, a guttural scream clawing up his throat.

Proctor gave Kett a glare that might have killed him, then he charged forward, his rifle aimed at the injured man. He tried to kick the knife from the guy’s hands, but he wouldn’t let go of it. The other AFOs rushed in, one of them tripping on something that had been left on the floor, sprawling over the flagstones and losing his rifle.

Kett ran into the room, trying to make sense of the shifting dark.

“Over there!” somebody shouted.

A beam of torchlight swept towards the far wall, revealing a body that hung from a wooden frame. It looked like a woman, her head limp, her body skeletal. Even from here, in the chaos of flashing lights, Kett could see that she was dead.

More torches clicked on, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of horror. An immense image of Death watched with burning eyes from the walls, the weaving lights creating the illusion that it was moving. The guy with the knife was trying to get up, Proctor screaming at him, his rifle aimed at his head this time.

Savage ran over, dropping onto her knees by the man’s side. She grabbed his wrists.

“He’s tied up!” she screamed. “He’s tied up! Don’t shoot!”

A dozen torches converged on the knifeman, and Kett saw that Savage was right. His wrists had been bound tight with wire, the knife trapped inside his grasp. He couldn’t have let go of it even if he’d wanted to. Cuts ran up his arms and over his neck, dozens of them, as if somebody had tried to flay the tattoos from his flesh.

He wasn’t wearing a hood at all. More wire—barbed wire, Kett realised with growing horror—had been wound tightly around his head, enough to cover his face all the way from his hairline to his chin. It had blinded him, deafened him. The blood ran freely from everywhere, soaking his clothes, puddling beneath him.

“Jesus Christ,” said Kett.

“You’re okay,” said Savage, still holding the man’s wrists. “You’re safe, we’re police, don’t panic.”

She fired a look at Proctor, who was still aiming his rifle at the man’s head.

“Stand down!” she yelled. “He’s not going to hurt anyone. We need paramedics in here.”

“Do it,” said Kett, pushing in front of Proctor. “Now, Ed, and check on the woman.”

Kett dropped to his knees and grabbed the handle of the blood-slick knife while Savage kept a hold of the man’s arms. He wrenched it free, hurling it away. He tried to get his fingers into the wire around the guy’s wrists, but it was too tight. It was the same around his head, the barbs deep in his flesh, coiled like a crown of thorns.

Even with the torches, it was too dark to see how bad the wound in his hip was. But past the man’s second skin of blood, Kett made out the tattoo on his throat: the Virgin Mary. It looked like she was screaming.

“It’s Simon,” he said, looking at Savage.

She stared back, holding the young man’s hands while he coiled and twisted in agony. The inevitable truth was carved into her expression.

“You were right,” Kett told her. “He’s not the one.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It took the paramedics less than five minutes to find the room, but neither seemed in a hurry to approach Simon Garrison. They both froze in the door, wearing twin expressions of horror and grief. It was the woman who recovered first, taking halting steps across the flagstones and dropping onto her knees beside the wounded man. Simon had fallen almost completely still. Kett would have assumed he was dead if it wasn’t for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Unconscious, then. It was a small mercy.

Savage clung to the young man’s hands, her thumb stroking back and forth like a parent comforting a child. The AFOs watched from a distance, nobody wanting to stand anywhere near the body that had been crucified on the wall. Gideon’s spray-painted Reaper looked down on them all with eyes of fire, those same words scrawled beneath it.

The dead must not wake.

“What’s his name?” asked the paramedic.

“Simon,” Savage answered. “He’s got a bullet wound to the hip and a lot of lacerations on his arms and his throat, as well as… as well as everything else.”

“Simon, can you hear me?” the woman said, pushing her fingers into his throat beneath the mask of barbed wire. “Who did this to him?”

They didn’t know, so they didn’t answer. Kett stood back as the male paramedic finally caught up.

“I’ve got him,” said the woman, nodding to the far wall. “Check the other one.”

There wasn’t much point. Even in the wavering torchlight, and from the other side of the room, Kett knew she was dead.

Long dead.

Her body had wasted to nothing, every bone on show through parchment thin skin; skin that was so loose that the wire stitches had torn free in places. If he’d had any doubt, one of the AFOs had confirmed it: first with words, then by spewing vomit in the corner.

Kett followed the paramedic over anyway, into the fly-thick stench, his legs close to buckling. The victim hung alone here, the Y-shaped wooden frame bolted into the brick wall. A solitary trophy.

Marla, he thought, picturing the girl’s smiling face.

Then he lifted his torch and realised he’d got it wrong: it wasn’t a woman at all, it was a man, his long hair covering his face and chest, his modesty preserved by his underwear. The insects had made him their home, thousands of them, his flesh bloated with their eggs. The hum of the flies was like a generator.

Kett had to turn around. He had to walk back, because he felt like if he didn’t get away from this place right now then he’d never escape.

“Watch your step,” said one of the firearms team, aiming his torch at the floor in front of Kett’s feet.

A tripod lay there, the one that the AFO had tripped over when they’d breached. Kett swept his torch, finding a video camera a little way off, sleek and black and new. A cable trailed into the shadows, more on the floor beside it.

“Pete, you got gloves?” he asked.

Porter was already wearing them. The DI picked up the camera, turning it in his hands. There was no viewscreen, just the cracked lens on one side and a port on the other for the cable.

“Streaming camera,” said the DI. “Wireless.”

Kett frowned.

“Streaming?”

“Yeah, doesn’t record, just broadcasts straight to the web or a computer or whatever.”

He looked around, his frown deepening.

“Can’t be any Wi-Fi here though.”

“There is,” said Savage, holding up her phone in a bloody hand. She’d moved away from Simon so that the paramedics could work. “Signal coming from somewhere.”

“Hang on,” said Kett. “Somebody rigged up a camera? Why? Gideon’s dead, they must know that. And that victim’s long gone. Why are they still recording?”

He closed his eyes, trying to remember which way it had been facing when the tactical team had breached the room.

“Maybe they were filming what they did to Simon?” said Savage.

“Or filming us,” said Porter.

“What’s that cable?” asked Kett, looking at the camera. “You think it’s still running?”

“Fuck,” said Porter, and for a second, he looked like he was going to lob it away like he’d picked up a live rat. “Wait, that’s a data cable. Power cord’s been pulled out. Get me a bag.”

Savage pulled an evidence bag from her jacket, opening it up. Porter ripped out the cable and dropped the camera inside.

“Get it to forensics,” said Kett.

He used his phone to follow the cables on the floor, seeing them vanish through a narrow hole in the wall.

“Sir?” came a voice from the open door. It was PC Niven, her face gaunt. She stood to the side to let Savage out, then leaned back in. “They’ve found something.”

“What now?” he said.

He was grateful for the excuse to leave the murder room, to leave the choking smell of the dead and the audience of flies. He followed Niven down the corridor into a small utility space, the ruined ceiling letting in a flood of light. There was a fuseboard here, an old one, and it had been butchered: the hatch open, the wires spilled over the stone floor like intestines. John Paxton stood next to it, his rifle on the worktop, his helmet off.

“Meter’s been disconnected outside,” he said. “But they’ve hacked it. Pretty decent job. And there’s this.”

He nodded to the corner of the room, and Kett saw a router there, the lights flashing. It sat next to a hole in the wall that was stuffed with cables. The murder room was on the other side, Kett realised, as he got his bearings. Another wire led through the outside wall.

“Probably a satellite modem,” said Paxton, wiping his gloved hand over his brow. “Bet you anything there’s a dish out there somewhere.”

“I’ll go check,” said Niven, almost running for the door.

“What the hell is going on?” said Kett, turning to Porter. “This isn’t just a killer filming their dead. This is…”

He couldn’t find the words for it, his head swimming. Footsteps crunched outside, then the hole in the wall grew dark.

“Sir, are you in there?” said Niven.

“Yeah, Flick.”

“There’s a little dish, like John said,” she told him. “It’s screwed into the wall, pointing up.”

“The hell?” said Porter.

“Hang on,” said Niven. Kett heard a distant shout. “It’s Savage, sir, she needs you.”

Kett walked back the way he’d come, stopping in the corridor as the paramedics wheeled a gurney from the kill room. Simon lay on it, still out cold. His clasped hands rested on his stomach like he was praying, his head still locked inside a sarcophagus of barbed wire.

“Can’t get it off without killing him,” said the woman as she yanked the front of the gurney around the tight angle of the turn. The man pushed from the other end, struggling on the floor. There was debris everywhere, bricks and stones scattered like knuckle bones.

“Little help,” he grunted.

Kett and Porter skipped ahead, kicking the detritus to the sides of the corridor to clear a path. The paramedics wheeled their charge along the runway, hefting him over the step. Kett followed them into the glorious day, the sun instantly burning away the chill of the room, blowtorching the nightmare images from his retinas.

“Here, sir,” said Savage, waving to him from the track that led to the road. The ambulance had been moved to the front of the barn, along with a couple of IRVs. Savage stood beside the open boot of one of the cars, waving. Duke was next to her, holding a laptop in one hand and the camera they’d found in the other. A slim, black cable connected them. “Got a lucky break,” she said. “Hurry.”

“I’m going as fast as I can, Kate,” said Kett, managing a lacklustre jog. “What is it?”

Duke turned the laptop towards them, but the day was too bright for Kett to see what was on the screen.

“Put it in the boot,” he said.

Duke laid the laptop in the shade of the IRV, between the evidence bags and half-empty water bottles. He set the little camera beside it. The screen was still too dark to see much, but when Kett put his glasses on he could see enough. It was the murder room they’d just left, the dead man hanging right in the centre of the frame. Simon sat hunched against the wall beside him, already mummified in wire, the knife clasped in his hands. Nothing was moving, the scene frozen.

Watching it like this, on screen, made him realise he’d seen the room before: one of the videos from Gideon’s basement.

“What am I looking at?” he asked. “The killer recorded this?”

“Yeah,” said Duke. “Kind of. It’s a streaming camera, they don’t have internal storage. But this one’s got a tiny flash memory in case the power’s interrupted. Enough for maybe a minute’s worth of footage at a time. Managed to connect it to this dinosaur.”

“Play it,” said Savage, and Duke pressed the space bar.

Nothing happened, and Kett was about to comment that the scene was still frozen when another figure stepped into the shot. It was the rider, dressed all in black, still wearing their helmet

“Shit,” said Kett.

The rider crouched beside Simon, giving him a pat on the top of his head—the only place there was no barbed wire. The young man uttered a muffled scream through his mask of metal barbs, his body contracting so hard that he almost stabbed himself in the throat with the knife.

The rider stood up and walked to the camera. They ducked down so that their visor filled the screen. In it, Kett could see the reflection of the camera, and the distorted shape of the room behind it, all dark corners and shifting shadows.

“He’s looking right at us,” said Savage, her voice quiet.

She was right. The rider cocked his head, still staring. Kett felt the goosebumps break out on his arms, the unmistakeable dread of something watching him, something dangerous.

“What’s he doing?” he asked.

The rider stood back so that they were in frame from the waist up, blocking the dead man behind. Then they lifted both hands, extending their middle fingers. There was something so familiar about the gesture that Kett felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

The rider stayed like that for a good ten seconds before their head jerked to the side, as if they’d heard something. A heartbeat later, they were gone, running past the camera fast enough to knock it over.

The ceiling appeared, and the feed cut to black.

“Figure they ripped out the power cord as they went,” said Savage.

“Probably an accident,” said Duke. “Camera saved the last minute of footage.”

“Who is it?” said Kett, taking a seat on the edge of the boot so that he could rest his back. He felt like he had barbed wire wrapped around his head too, piercing the tender flesh of his brain. He thought about those twin middle fingers, the arrogance in the gesture. “Because I can only think of one person it might be, and that doesn’t make any sense.”

Everyone waited.

“The girl at Simon’s flat,” he said. “Darcey. She made that exact same gesture when I saw her earlier, when I tried to tell her what to do. Both fingers up.”

“Not exactly uncommon, though,” said Duke. “I give Porter the finger most days, when he’s not looking.”

“It can’t be her,” said Kett, shaking his head. “That’s…”

He’d been about to say impossible, because Darcey had looked so young, and so innocent. But all the years on the job had taught him something else: that nothing was impossible.

Everyone has a reason to kill, and the ability to do it.

“The blood was Simon’s,” he said. “At the flat. They were fighting, but Darcey attacked him.”

“We figured Simon was manipulating her, getting her ready for Gideon,” said Savage. “But it’s the other way around, isn’t it? She was using him. She’s the rider. She’s the one who was going to the meetings, grooming the victims.”

“That makes a lot more sense,” said Kett. “I didn’t get why they all went with Simon so willingly, the men and the women. I mean, you know he’s a creep from the moment you meet him. But Darcey’s young, she’s harmless, she’s easier to trust. What do we know about her?”

“I’ll find out,” said Porter, pulling out his phone and walking off.

Kett pressed the space bar again, the film playing from the start. He watched the rider appear, patting Simon on the head.

“This isn’t making any more sense than when we thought Simon was doing it,” said Kett. “Darcey’s a kid, how the hell did she end up working with somebody like Gideon? What are you thinking, Kate?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she said. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense, not until we know more about her. And she’s not exactly big, right? Tall, but slim. You met her. Does she seem like the kind of woman who could overpower a guy like Simon? Who could subdue those other victims if she needed to?”

They watched the rider close in on the camera, the room reflected in her visor.

“No,” said Kett. “But there was something about her. Something in her eyes. She was angry. I thought she was just haunted by what was happening to her, shacked up with a man who wasn’t much more than a cheap pornographer. I thought she was pissed off at him for taking photos of Kathryn, too.”

The rider stepped back, those middle fingers up.

“Maybe I was seeing a different kind of madness.”

“And how did she get him here?” asked Savage. “If she attacked him in the flat, then rode here on the bike, how did she manage to bring him with her?”

Kett shook his head, his thoughts swimming.

“We don’t know much,” said Porter as he ran back. “Darcey Anne Pratt, twenty-one years old, born in Portsmouth. Moved to Norwich in 2010. She’s got a sheet, couple of arrests for shoplifting when she was a teenager, one for affray. No record of employment at all, but she’s had enough money to pay the rent on that flat for the last few years. Alison’s going to do a deep dive.”

The video feed had stopped again, and Kett pressed play for a third time.

“Can we get anything off the camera?” he asked.

“Other than that?” said Duke, watching the rider walk up to Simon. “No. It streamed to the modem, then got broadcast. We have no way of picking up where it was sent.”

“Or who was watching,” said Kett. “What about the camera? Any clues?”

“Popular brand,” said Duke. “You can buy them anywhere. The satellite dish isn’t quite as common. We might be able to narrow it down, but…”

He shrugged his big shoulders.

“Unlikely she’d leave anything behind if it would lead us to her.”

The rider stepped back again, those middle fingers waving. Then her head jerked around, and she bolted.

“You think she heard the IRV, sir?” said Savage. “Flick and Val?”

“Maybe,” said Kett. “Is there any timestamp or anything?”

Duke shook his head.

“Digital forensics might be able to find one.”

“If it was Flick,” said Kett, “it would have been just after four. But then why didn’t Darcey take her bike when she bolted?”

“Too noisy, if there are police right there,” said Duke. “They’d hear her starting that Ducati from a mile off.”

Kett pressed play again, hoping he’d see something he missed.

“So she left on foot?” said Kett. “She can’t have got far. Aaron, can you let control know, we might be able to pick her up.”

“Sure,” said Duke.

The PC moved away, speaking into his radio, and sunlight drenched the screen. Kett angled the laptop to the side, squinting through his glasses as the ghostly outline of the rider moved towards the camera.

“Pete, get some of these PCs out in the fields,” he said. “For all we know, she’s still close.”

“Sir,” said Porter, walking off and letting even more light into the boot. Kett heard him yelling at the assembled constables.

“Done, sir,” said Duke.

The big PC leaned into the boot, throwing the screen into shade just as the rider moved closer. Their helmet filled the view, showing the reflection of the camera and the room behind.

“Little space, Aaron,” said Savage.

Duke started to back off, the sun creeping in. Kett grabbed his arm, rooting him in place.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Kett squinted, staring at the kill room, which was distorted in the rider’s visor like a fisheye lens. Free of the sun, he could make out the wall, and the door that they’d entered through.

“What is that?” he said, pointing at the screen.

“The rider, sir,” said Duke. “Their helmet.”

“In the helmet, Aaron,” he said, and he poked the screen hard enough to tilt it back. If anything, it made the scene clearer still, the rectangle of the door, a halo of soft light.

And a silhouette.

The rider stepped away again, her middle fingers raised.

“Rewind it,” said Kett. “And up the brightness.”

Duke did as he was asked, fiddling with the settings before scrubbing back a few seconds. The rider leaned in, her helmet like a mirror.

Kett saw the reflected door, no sign of the silhouette until, two seconds in, that blurred shadow moved into place.

Somebody else was walking into the room.

“That’s a person,” said Savage. “It has to be.”

The rider stepped back, her middle fingers raised in defiance. It was the gesture of somebody who wanted to have the last word.

It was the gesture of somebody who knew they’d won.

“Darcey isn’t doing this on her own,” said Kett, the anger making him want to punch a hole in the laptop screen. “Somebody else is helping her.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Okay, sir, you ready for this?” said Spalding, her voice crackling down the phone. “You might want to brace yourself.”

Kett sat in the passenger seat of the IRV, smothered in the heat of the sun that blazed through the windscreen. Getting into the car had been a mistake, because his exhaustion was amplified in here, the fatigue like sash weights on his eyelids, like wire threaded through his skin, holding him in place. It was a struggle even to hold up his phone so that Savage and Porter could hear it through the open door.

“Darcey was born in Portsmouth in ‘03, came to Norfolk when she was seven, just after her dad died,” said Spalding. “Left school at sixteen and enrolled at college, an NVQ in electrical installation.”

“She was training to be an electrician?” said Savage. “That fits.”

“She had a head start,” said Spalding. “Her dad was a gaffer, worked on film sets and art installations. Died in 2009, on the job, by the look of it.”

“What about the mum?” said Kett.

“Her name’s Rachel Pratt,” said Spalding. “She’s an academic, was a lecturer at Portsmouth Uni until her husband died. Then she moved here, bought a place near Fakenham. No job.”

“Life insurance?” said Savage.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Spalding. “Fresh start with a big chunk of change.

“She’s not known to us at all, clean as a whistle.”

“You said she’s an academic,” said Kett. “What subject?”

“Hang on,” said Spalding, and he heard her shuffling papers. “Double major in history and psychology.”

Something was itching the back of Kett’s skull, the sensation like crawling insects.

“Where?” he asked. “And Alison, if you say Cambridge, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Then I’m not going to say it, sir,” said Spalding. “But yeah, that’s it.”

“Gideon studied at Cambridge,” said Savage.

“When was she there?” asked Kett. “When was Gideon there? He graduated in ’99, didn’t he?”

There was a pause as Spalding looked for the answer.

“Rachel graduated six years before him, but she stayed on to do a Masters, then a PhD in…” She laughed. “Criminal behaviour.”

“Shit,” said Kett. “It’s the mum.”

“Darcey’s mum?” said Porter, frowning.

“Somebody was manipulating Gideon, right?” he said. “Somebody hammered away at his childhood trauma and his warped belief system until he started to think he was Death incarnate, and they dosed him with ketamine to make sure this new worldview seeded. You said it, Kate, it must have taken years to do that; like Eden Howarth.”

“Right,” said Savage. “Gideon would have been a teenager when he went to Cambridge, a child. First time away from home, away from his mother. He was alone, he was vulnerable. Especially vulnerable, given his upbringing. His entire psychological foundation was shaky, at best. He’d have been a ripe target for somebody who knew what they were doing.”

“Somebody like Darcey’s mum,” said Kett. “Psychology major, fascinated by criminal behaviour. She’s older than him, she’s doing a PhD, or teaching. She probably started working on Gideon decades ago, when they were at university. Maybe that’s why she moved up to Norfolk, because Gideon was here. If this was some kind of… of experiment that she started in Cambridge, then she’d have wanted to keep working on it. Working on him.”

“That’s a bit of a gap, though,” said Savage. “Gideon comes straight home from university after his Master’s, he’s lived here ever since. Rachel Pratt and her daughter move up in 2010. What happened in the decade in between?”

Kett didn’t have an answer, the fabric of his thoughts unravelling. He pulled the visor down to shield himself from the sun, pushing his spare hand to his eyes, searching the mottled dark.

“We need to bring her in,” he said. “Alison, get some units over to her house.”

“She’s not going to be there, sir,” said Savage. “If this is her then she was here, she was the reflection in the visor. She won’t go home. She’ll run.”

“Unless they’re arrogant enough to think we’ll never realise it’s them,” said Kett. “Send them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Spalding, hanging up.

The heat was getting to be too much, the car like a sauna. He waved Savage out of the way, taking Porter’s hand when he offered it. The DI pulled him out of the IRV, every joint popping as he stood straight. He had to lean on the roof for a second as vertigo made the world spin.

“You alright there, sir?” said Porter. “You look like you’re about three seconds off meeting the Reaper yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Kett with a grim smile. “You’re not wrong.”

He looked over at the barns, the old buildings glowing in the light of the late afternoon sun. The rooks were still grieving, dozens of them perched on the roof and the surrounding trees, their chattering cries the loudest thing for miles. Two AFOs were walking out of the door, their expressions hidden in the shade of their helmets, but their emotions evident in their slumped shoulders, their shaking heads. Duke slouched out behind them, stroking his moustache like it was the only thing keeping him sane. At this rate, he was going to pull out every last hair before the end of the day.

“Darcey didn’t mention anything, when you saw her?” said Savage, pulling him back. “Any clues to why she might be doing this?”

“None,” he said. “She seemed angry at Simon for taking the photos at the church, though. I figured she was just as disgusted with him as I was, but I think maybe she was worried that he’d give her away, that he’d captured something on film.”

“That’s another thing I don’t get,” said Porter, frowning. “If Darcey was doing this, and not Simon, then why was he at the wedding? How did he get there so quickly?”

Kett frowned.

“Darcey had to have been at the kill room with Gideon and Kathryn,” said Savage. “Somebody had to set up the cameras each time, somebody had to monitor the satellite feed. She must have seen Kathryn pull herself free, must have seen Gideon pick her up and put her in the van. She followed him to the church, which means…”

“Which means Simon was with her,” said Kett. “So he is involved.”

The young man’s fate, cocooned in barbed wire, suddenly didn’t seem so horrific.

“He’s the tech guy,” said Porter. “He has the kit. Darcey and her mum probably needed him to set it all up.”

“But why?” said Kett. “Why do they need to video it? What are they getting out of it?”

“OnlyFans,” said Duke as he walked up.

“What?” said Savage, pulling a face.

“Just saying,” said the big PC, fluffing his tache with both hands. “Simon offered to manage our OnlyFans, at the wedding. You remember, Kate?”

Savage nodded, and so did Kett.

“He mentioned it again in the flat,” he said. “He had photos of a dozen girls on the walls, all those DVDs. He said he managed people’s accounts for them. But this…”

Kett gestured at the barns.

“This isn’t a bunch of women getting their kit off, is it? This is… this is violence, and death. It’s unspeakable. Nobody would…”

Nobody would pay to see that, he was going to say.

But he didn’t, because he knew it wasn’t true.

“Christ,” he said instead, putting his hand to his mouth. “You don’t think?”

He was greeted with silence. If they didn’t speak the words, maybe it wouldn’t be true.

“The satellite dish,” said Porter after a moment. “The cameras. They were broadcasting. Could have been to one person. Could have been to ten.”

“Could be thousands,” added Duke. “All watching Gideon at work.”

Every inch of Kett’s skin seemed to crinkle into goosebumps, his scalp shrinking.

“No,” he said, as if that might make any difference at all.

“So Rachel Pratt started this years ago,” said Porter. “She started corrupting Gideon at university, some kind of sick psychological experiment.”

“And she picked it up again when she moved to Norwich,” said Savage. “Only this time, she had her daughter to help her.”

“And they knew how to turn it into a business,” said Kett. “Darcey recruited Simon because she needed his help setting everything up. And, what? They’re streaming onto the dark web?”

“Would explain why they don’t have jobs,” said Duke. “Probably all crypto.”

Kett shook his head.

“That can’t be it,” he said.

He was answered by his phone, the Mexican Hat Dance so loud that it almost silenced the rooks.

“Alison,” he said. “Tell me you found her.”

“Units say Rachel Pratt’s house is empty, sir,” she said. “No car. They’ve been inside, no sign of her, but somebody’s been packing bags.”

Kett swore beneath his breath.

“Keep me posted,” he told Spalding, but she’d already gone.

He threw his phone through the open door onto the seat, locking his scream of frustration in his throat.

“They’re bolting,” he said. “Both of them. Gideon’s dead, so they’ve got no reason to stay.”

“They’re going to do the same thing somewhere else,” said Savage. “New names, new places, new victims. We must have missed something. Somebody like that…”

She looked at the laptop.

“Somebody as arrogant as Darcey, she must have said something, done something. Think, sir.”

Kett paced away from the car, forcing his mind back into Simon’s flat. He could still see Darcey lifting her hands, extending her middle fingers.

“She called me something,” he said. “She used a word to describe men. Ninnies?”

That wasn’t quite right.

“No, dinnies,” he said, remembering. “That was it. She called us a bunch of dinnies for trying to tell her how to live her life.”

“Dinnies?” said Savage. “You’re sure?”

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t paying much attention, I was too focussed on Simon.”

“Dinnies is a southern word,” said Duke. “I lived in Pompey for a bit when we were kids.”

“Pompeii?” said Porter. “That’s in Italy, you knob.”

“Portsmouth,” said Duke. “Dad had a job there when I was about thirteen. Dinnies is what the locals called anyone who was an idiot.”

“You must have heard it a lot, then?” said Porter.

“Doesn’t help us much,” said Kett. “We already know that’s where she’s from.”

“Short for dinlos,” Duke went on, his face falling. “Dinny dinlo. That was my nickname for a while at school. I think Joshy started it, before we were besties.”

“Dinlo,” said Kett, another spark igniting. “I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard it recently.”

He closed his eyes, snapping his fingers, but the exhaustion was too much, the mental fog obscuring everything.

“Dinlo,” he said. “Dinlo, come on.”

“Oh!” said Savage. “Wait, I know exactly where we heard it. In HQ, the woman on the phone. Karen.”

It came back to Kett like a mallet to the face.

They were a couple of proper dinlos.

“Karen,” he said, feeling a giant piece of the puzzle click into place. “Christ, how could we be so blind? She told us she had a degree, from, uh…”

He clicked his fingers again, until Savage found the answer he was looking for.

“Trinity,” she said. “Cambridge. It was a doctorate.”

“She had the list of properties,” he went on. “She was right under our noses and we missed her. Again.”

He grabbed his phone from the car, calling Spalding.

“Why would she risk it?” he asked as he waited for the DS to answer. “Why talk to us, if she’s behind this?”

“Because it’s a game,” said Savage. “And she thinks she’s playing it better than we are. She thinks she’s smarter than us, too clever to be caught.”

“She’s not bloody wrong,” said Porter.

“What is it now, sir?” snapped Spalding when she picked up.

“Karen Fields,” said Kett. “The woman with the list of abandoned places, the unclaimed estates. Where did you find her?”

“Online,” said Spalding. “She’s a consultant, she has a website.”

“You’ve used her before?”

“No,” she said. “Well, not personally, but she said she’d spoken with us in relation to another case, a while back. She didn’t say which one. Why?”

“Because she’s our accomplice,” said Kett. “Send me the link, Alison, and send me a photo of Rachel Pratt, because I’m willing to bet everything I own that it’s the same person.”

He ended the call, chewing a hole in his knuckles while he waited.

“She had it all planned,” said Savage. “She knew that one day Gideon would break free of whatever spell she’d put him under, or somebody would just stumble onto one of the bodies. She knew that there was a chance we’d find one of the properties and use the list to track down the others. So she made sure that if we called on an expert, it was her.”

“But why would she do that?” said Porter. “Why send us to all the places where Gideon was doing his thing? Why help us?”

“Because she wanted to plant the entire blame on Gideon,” said Kett. “Making it easy to find his victims makes it easy for us to pin it all on him.”

“But some were still alive,” said Porter. “They’d have told us about the meetings, they’d have mentioned Darcey. We would have made the connection. It’s a massive gamble.”

“Not a gamble, sir,” said Savage. “A game. She was willing to play the odds. Gideon’s victims might survive, but their brains would be mush. And at the end of the day, she’s a psychopath, she has no loyalty to anyone. Even if we caught Darcey, Karen—Rachel—would be long gone.”

Kett’s phone beeped, and he opened Spalding’s text to see a photo on-screen. It was Karen Fields, the same woman who’d been on the video call yesterday, a few years younger and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Underneath it, Spalding had written:

This is Rachel Pratt. You were right.

Kett was in the middle of texting her back when another message came through, this one a link to a website. His thumb hovered over it for a second, because he already knew what he’d see there.

Or what he wouldn’t see.

He clicked the link, and the site loaded. There was no property page, no information about the auction lists or the unclaimed estates, no photographs of derelict buildings, no biography of Karen Fields.

There were just two words, small and black against a white background:

Too slow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

There was no doubt about it.

They’d been outplayed.

“There are a million people with the name Karen Fields,” said Spalding, speaking on the phone, exhaustion slurring her words. “And the website she set up is registered to a fake business at a fake address with a fake phone number. The credit card used to pay for it is real, but it’s for an overseas account, and it’ll be a dead end. But get this…”

Kett leaned against the IRV, hoping the afternoon sun would burn out the back of his skull. The phone rested next to him, Spalding’s voice rattling the speakers.

“There are four websites registered to that address with the same hosting company. One is Karen’s unclaimed estates page. The others are websites for specialists in three fields: Christian imagery, graffiti, and body modifications, specifically the art of suspension, or hanging yourself from your piercings. All list different names for the experts, but all the photos show the same person. Rachel Pratt.”

“She was ready for us whatever we did,” said Savage. “She wanted us to get in touch with her.”

Kett nodded.

“But why?” he asked. “What did she have to gain from it? This can’t just be a game to her.”

“It can,” said Savage. “Some of the most infamous serial killers treated their crimes as a sport. BTK and the Zodiac Killer actively sent the police clues and cyphers and word puzzles. They loved taunting them, they loved the thrill of the chase, the cat and mouse excitement of it.”

“Sick,” muttered Porter.

“It gives them a much greater sense of power,” said Savage. “It makes them think they’re smarter than the people who are chasing them, that they’re in control.”

“‘Too slow,’” said Kett. “She knew we’d check the site, she knew we’d see it. This is part of her plan, this is fun for her.”

Savage nodded.

“Killers like this, they think they’re unique, they think they deserve to be studied, especially somebody like Rachel, with a background in psychology. In her head, there’s no way we can catch her. All we can do is… document her, appreciate her, if that makes sense.”

“Nothing makes sense any more,” said Kett. “There’s really nothing else we can go on?”

“I’ll keep looking,” said Spalding, but the tone of her voice said it all.

Kett pushed himself away from the car, his body ten stone heavier than it had been yesterday morning, when all he’d expected from the weekend was a celebration of love and friendship. He looked at Porter, and Duke, and Savage, seeing the same exhaustion there, the same resignation.

“She thinks she’s smarter than us,” he said. “But she’s not. She’s not even close. Pete, I’ve worked with you for twenty years. You’re a brilliant detective. I’ve seen you solve case after case after case even when everyone else has written them off. You always fight for the victims. Always.”

Porter nodded, scratching at his beard. He didn’t look like he believed a word of it.

“And Kate,” Kett went on. “I have literally never worked with a smarter copper. You can get right inside their heads in a way I’ve never seen before.”

“Thanks, sir,” she said. “Not that it’s done much good this time.”

“And Aaron,” said Kett, turning to Duke and his sad moustache. He struggled for a moment, the big PC watching him expectantly. “You’re a machine. You don’t know when to stop. Even when everyone else has quit, you just keep going.”

“Notice he didn’t say how clever you were,” said Porter with a smug smile.

“I’m saying we’re all smart,” said Kett. “Smarter than this piece of shit by a long way. Think about what we’ve done. Five years working together, and look at the cases we’ve closed, look at the monsters we’ve caught, the people we’ve saved. Rachel thinks she’s the smartest criminal we’ve gone after?”

He laughed.

“She doesn’t even come close. Maynard. Hollenbeck. The Monk. The Hateful Thing. Stillwater and Figg. Howarth. Ballard. Marshall. The Cleggs. Those bastards in Whytetail. Ron and Bert and Maddy. The list’s endless, but we got all of them. Every last devil. She thinks she can ride off into the sunset and live her life? No. She doesn’t get to do that. Not now, not ever. So think. Where did they go? Where are they?”

For a few moments, only the roosting rooks answered. Then Savage put up her hand.

“This isn’t just a game to them,” she said. “If it was, they wouldn’t need the cameras, or the satellite dishes. It’s like we said, this is a business. They’re not going to leave it behind. They’ll have a base somewhere, a control centre. They’ll need to pack it up before they move.”

“Right,” said Kett. “That’s good.”

“And they’ll drain every last penny out of it,” said Porter. “If they’ve got subscribers, they’ll want to give them a show. Marla’s still missing, maybe they’re still filming her, still broadcasting it.”

“From where?” said Kett.

“The missing link,” said Duke.

“Don’t be hard on yourself, mate,” said Porter. “You’re not, like, Neanderthal stupid.”

“No, the missing property link,” said the PC. “Karen gave us the list of unclaimed estates that Gideon was using as murder rooms. She told us the list had everything on it. She said it showed everywhere we should be looking. But it was her list, wasn’t it? What if she missed one out?”

“Oh my God,” said Savage, her tired face opening up. “That’s right, we based our entire search on the information she gave us. All we have to do is work out if she left anything off. It’s so simple.”

“Wasn’t that simple,” said Duke, frowning.

“Call Alison,” Kett said to Savage. “Get her to check. Aaron, round up tactical, tell them we’re not done yet.”

“Sir,” said Duke with a salute. He bounded down the track towards the barn, one hand on his Taser.

“What do you need me to do, sir?” asked Porter.

“Be ready,” Kett told him. “One last push, Pete.”

“One last push,” the DI replied with a nod.

Kett climbed behind the wheel of the IRV, firing up the engine. Porter got in next to him, his jaw set. It was like the early days, Kett thought, those endless shifts on duty together in London. It had been hell, no doubt about it, made infinitely worse by the fact that John Cooper and his legion of bent coppers had been breathing down their necks. But they’d always had each other. PC Kett and PC Porter. Day in, day out, they’d been a team.

The back door opened and Savage climbed in.

“Spalding’s on it,” she said. “She’s cross-referencing Karen’s list with a government one. She’s found two places so far. One’s a crypt over near Dereham. The other’s an old chapel outside of North Walsham.”

“North Walsham’s on the Sheringham line,” said Kett. “Maybe that’s where Gideon was going.”

“It’s just down the road from here,” said Savage, looking to the horizon.

Duke was jogging back, Ed Proctor beside him. The AFO had put his helmet back on, his rifle over his shoulder. Kett wound down the window.

“You got an address?” said Proctor.

“Yeah, two,” said Kett. “I need you with us. North Walsham. Get some of your team to Dereham, just in case.”

“Will do,” he said, breaking off towards the tactical van. “We’ll follow you.”

Duke got in next to Savage, his door barely closed before Kett punched the accelerator. The IRV growled, spraying gravel as it powered up the track. He thumped onto the road, the van filling his rear-view mirror a few seconds later. They carved a path through the countryside, kicking up clouds of dust; silent, other than the roar of the engines. It was only thirteen minutes later that Savage yelled for Kett to slow down, pointing past his head to a turning.

“It’s right up there, sir,” she said.

Kett pumped the brakes, the back of the car almost sliding out as he made the turn. The sinking sun filled the windscreen, turning everything the colour of blood, blinding him even when he’d snapped the visor down. He took it slow, hunched over the wheel, seeing the roof of a chapel rise over the hedgerows. He was looking at it so intently that he almost didn’t see the car in the middle of the track in time. It was a silver Mercedes, parked diagonally, blocking the way forward. Kett stopped behind it, killing the engine, an unwelcome silence flooding the IRV.

“Run the plates,” said Kett.

He opened the door, climbing into the furnace of the afternoon. Proctor was already out, his team assembling behind him with a clatter of equipment.

“We’re looking for two women,” said Kett. “Mother and daughter. They’re both behind what happened to Healey, so assume they’re dangerous.”

Proctor answered with a nod. He looked at the roof of the chapel.

“They in there?”

“I hope so,” said Kett.

Proctor checked his rifle then set off at speed, his team moving into position behind him. Kett jogged after them, Savage by his side, Porter and Duke taking the rear. They rounded the corner to see the chapel, a vast monolith of grey stone topped with a triangular roof. The enormous windows had been boarded up, but the wide front door stood open. Two smaller, single-storey wings jutted out from the sides of the building, no sign of life anywhere.

The tactical team advanced, fanning out to keep their rifles trained on the door before funnelling in behind Proctor. Their cries echoed off the blunt face of the chapel.

“Armed police! Armed police!”

Kett moved after them, stopping when he heard an engine sputter to life inside the building on the right.

“Ed, watch out!” he yelled.

A motorbike skidded out from behind the chapel, accelerating towards Kett as it headed for the road. It wasn’t a Ducati, it was something smaller and much less powerful, struggling to build up speed on the gravel. The rider wore all black, their helmeted head angled back over their shoulder as the tactical team fumbled in circles.

“Get off the bike!” roared Proctor, swinging his rifle around. He couldn’t get a shot off without the risk of hitting Kett and the others. “Move!”

The rider sped up, so distracted by the tactical team that she didn’t notice Duke standing in front of her until she was almost on him. The PC gripped his Taser, and he held his ground until the very last second.

“Armed police!” he roared.

The rider tried to steer around him, the tyres losing purchase. Duke fired, the barb catching the woman in her arm just as she was passing. She was going fast enough to rip the weapon right out of Duke’s hands, but the effect was instantaneous. Her body convulsed, the handlebars of the bike snapping to the side and turning her in a sharp circle.

Duke threw himself at her, a jaw breaker of a tackle that thumped the woman off the bike and dumped her on the ground. The big PC planted a knee in her back, reaching for his cuffs.

“Don’t fucking move!” he yelled.

Porter skidded down beside him, holding the rider’s arms as she started to recover. She was in no state to fight back, and in a handful of seconds she lay still, her hands secured behind her.

“Who is it?” said Kett.

Porter lifted the visor to reveal Darcey’s face, her eyes wild, her mouth foaming.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t do anything, it was all him, it was Gideon, it was him for fuck’s sake.”

“Where’s your mother, Darcey?” said Kett. “Where’s Rachel?”

The words shut her up instantly, like a switch had been flicked. She studied Kett with an insect stare, her eyes dead. Then the corner of her mouth flicked up into a doll-like smile. She took a breath as if to answer, but it was a scream that exploded from her.

“Run, Mum! They’re here!”

Porter snapped the visor shut to silence her, pushing her helmeted head into the dirt. Kett turned to the tactical team, pointing to the chapel.

“She’s inside,” he yelled. “Move!”

They breached the door in a storm of shouts. Kett ran after them, plunging into the chapel. The interior was so dark after the bright evening that he was instantly blind. He staggered forwards, listening to the angry calls of the tactical team as they moved deeper into the building.

A torch clicked on behind him, Savage right there.

“That way,” she said, nodding to an open door. Lights cut through the shadows on the other side of it, a hurricane of noise and motion as Proctor and his men tore the chapel apart.

Kett jogged down the corridor, seeing the cables in the walls, knowing what he was going to find long before he tripped through another door into the main body of the building.

The torches proved him right, revealing the crumbling ceiling, the rafters exposed like bones; the rows of bulbs that had been mounted in the old wood, the speakers that lined the walls; the grinning face of the painted Reaper, and those familiar words: the dead must not wake. The lights converged as one against the far wall, where two figures stood, side by side.

The first was a young woman, her arms and legs stitched into one of Gideon’s wooden frames, her head hanging against her chest. She was unconscious. Or dead.

The second was Karen Fields—or Rachel Pratt—dressed in a black tracksuit and trainers, her hair tied back. In her hand she held a sickle, almost identical to the one that Gideon had wielded on the train. The blade was pressed tight against the girl’s throat, and everything in Rachel’s insane face said she would be happy enough to use it.

A camera sat on a tripod, facing both of them. Kett couldn’t tell if it was on or not.

“Drop the weapon!” yelled Proctor. “Get on the floor!”

Rachel bared her teeth and shook her head. Her eyes were two rage-filled blisters that glared at the tactical team, that found Savage, then Kett.

“We will shoot,” said Proctor, taking a step forward. “Drop the fucking knife!”

Rachel didn’t reply, the blade leaving its mark on the other woman’s skin. She adjusted her stance, almost tripping on a coil of thick, black cables that lay by her feet. Proctor held his ground, never taking his eyes off the woman, never taking his finger off the trigger.

“Where’s Darcey?” said Rachel.

“Under arrest,” said Kett, inching into the light of the torches. “You’re done. Both of you. You hearing me, Karen?”

He stepped a little closer. Thirty feet overhead, in the exposed roof, pigeons flapped between the rafters, scattering feathers. Blades of sunlight cut through the missing tiles, spearing the floor of the chapel.

“Or should I be calling you Rachel?”

The woman barked out a laugh, a sound of pure disbelief.

“Not as smart as you thought you were, eh?” said Kett. “How does that feel?”

Rachel licked her lips, the tip of the sickle never leaving the girl’s throat. It was impossible to tell if she was alive or dead, her body motionless. Her hair concealed her face, but it was dark, like Marla’s, and she couldn’t have been much older than a teenager.

“You have nothing on me,” said Rachel. “Nothing on Darcey, either. You can’t pin a single thing on either of us, because we didn’t do anything, we didn’t hurt anybody. It was all Gideon. We had nothing to do with it.”

“In that case, drop the weapon,” said Kett, calling her bluff. “Leave the girl alone. If you’re innocent, walk away.”

Rachel laughed again, her eyes cold.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

She looked at the girl, her expression unreadable.

“None of this was our idea, you know,” she said. “The victims, and what he did to them. It was all him. We just wound him up and… and let him go.”

“You’ve been winding Gideon up for twenty-five years,” said Savage, moving deeper into the room.

The shock registered on Rachel’s face, but only for a second before the anger flooded back. She turned her lizard eyes to Savage. If there hadn’t been thirty yards and a tactical team in between them, Kett was sure she’d have happily driven the curved blade into the DS’s throat.

“Cambridge University, right?” Savage went on. “You were doing your doctorate; Gideon was an undergraduate. You must have known all about him, Meredith Sherman’s son, twisted by years of religious dogma, religious abuse. And what? You saw the opportunity to mould him? To turn him into a tool?”

The tactical team was still fanning out, slowly closing the gap. Rachel bared her teeth again, a cornered dog.

“You’re mad,” the woman said. “You know that? All of you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was as much a victim of that man as any of them.”

“Then drop the sickle,” said Kett. “And move away.”

Rachel looked at the ceiling, at the birds who roosted there, at the bright evening that tried to peek through the cracks. She peeled back her lips, licked her teeth.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said. “What you’ve ruined.”

“I can guess,” said Kett, moving forward. “What did you think was going to happen? Your name in the history books? The killer who didn’t actually kill, who corrupted and coerced somebody else to do it for her?”

Rachel’s bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets, finding him.

“Did you think you were the new Zodiac? Too clever for the police, too smart to be caught. Did you think you were special, Karen?”

“Rachel,” she spat. “My name is Rachel.”

“But that’s just it,” said Kett. “Nobody will ever know it. Nobody will remember you. None of this is going to be studied in the textbooks. There’s nothing original here, nothing new. We’ve dealt with an entire group of people who did exactly what you’re doing, and you know what? They did it a whole lot better than you have.”

The first crack appeared in Rachel’s expression, her forehead creasing, her jaw growing slack.

“You think she’s anything special, Kate?” asked Kett.

“No,” said Savage. “I don’t think she’s anything at all.”

“So just end it, Rachel,” Kett went on. “Stop wasting our time. Drop the knife, and get on the floor.”

The woman seemed to shrink, as if she was deflating. She looked at the hanging girl beside her, and back at Kett. The sickle lowered a little, and Proctor tensed, his rifle perfectly still.

“Wait, Ed,” Kett said softly. “We want her alive.”

Rachel seemed to have given up, the arm with the weapon falling limp. She took a single step to the side, almost tripping again on that nest of cables. Her eyes were on the floor, roving wildly.

“Drop the weapon,” said Proctor. “We are not fucking around.”

“There’s one thing you haven’t considered, Robert,” said Karen, spitting out his name like it was rotten fruit.

“Yeah?” said Kett. “What’s that?”

“That maybe this is how I wanted it to play out,” she went on. “That maybe you’re not as smart as you assume you are. Did you ever think about that?”

She looked at him, a corpse’s grin stretched across her face. The arm with the sickle was still limp, but she’d lifted the toe of her shoe over the carpet of cables.

“Stay still,” barked Proctor. “Last warning.”

“Maybe this is exactly where I wanted to be,” she said, the smile growing. She glanced at the camera. “The world needs a show, after all.”

Rachel dropped the toe of her shoe, and Kett heard a click.

“Fu—” was all he managed.

Then he was cut short by an explosion of fire and fury.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It wasn’t a bomb, it was worse.

The chapel was engulfed by a supernova of strobing light from the overhead bulbs, and a crushing blast of music from the speakers on the walls. Kett dropped into a squat like it was a physical assault, his hands wrapped around his head. The lights were so bright they could have burned his eyes from their sockets, the noise enough to crack his skull in two. He squinted, seeing Rachel on the run, the staccato pulse making it look like she was going in slow motion.

Proctor opened fire, the gunshot drowned out by the screeching guitars, the demonic vocals.

Rachel jerked to the side, her face creased with pain. The sickle went flying, bouncing off the wall. She clamped her hand to her stomach, vanishing through a door just as the AFO fired again.

Proctor roared, his voice muted.

Kett ran after Rachel, the bass so loud it was making the floor shake, making dust rain down from overhead. He clamped his hands to his ears, pushing through the wall of sound, feeling it push back. Savage ran behind him, as if she could shelter there, but there was no hiding from it, the music was everywhere. She was shouting something to him, but he couldn’t hear her.

He tripped into a corridor, the soundtrack of hell following him. Savage swung her torch, revealing the trail of blood that Rachel had left behind her. The woman had made it halfway to another door, this one sealed with a chain. Then she must have doubled back, heading up a set of crooked stairs into the thick, choking dark of the roof.

“Rachel!” Kett yelled, not sure if he’d spoken or not.

Proctor lumbered through the door, his rifle to his shoulder. Smoke curled from the barrel.

“She’s up there,” said Kett. His words were meaningless, so he pointed.

Proctor took the lead, limping up the old steps, his rifle aimed into the heart of darkness above them. Kett trod on his heels, rounding corner after corner as they rose into the attic. He was halfway up the final flight when the music cut out, as suddenly as it had started.

“—the ground!” yelled Proctor from up ahead, his voice muffled. “On the fucking ground!”

Kett reached the top of the steps, seeing Proctor ahead of him. The torch on his rifle picked out an open door, no sign of Rachel on the other side. The AFO crept forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. The boards were brittle with rot, sagging beneath his weight. There was more blood up here. A lot of blood. Kett’s boots left tracks in it as he closed in.

“Easy, Ed,” he said, his voice sounding like somebody else’s against the ringing in his skull. “You don’t want to go through the floor again, we’re a lot higher up this time.”

Proctor ignored him, stepping through the door. Even past the high-pitched whine, Kett heard the building creak in protest.

“I mean it,” the AFO bellowed. “On the ground, now!”

Kett pushed through the door, Savage right behind him. They were in the eaves of the building, the floor a rope bridge of broken rafters that crossed a veritable ravine. Rachel moved unsteadily between them, holding onto crumbling posts as she crossed the joists. She was struggling, blood raining onto the chapel floor thirty feet below. Those same fingers of sunlight pushed through the ruptured roof, the colour of molten metal.

Kett moved after the woman, feeling the floor start to give way beneath him, the crack of breaking wood like gunshots. He glanced down, the tactical team far below, their torches swinging upwards. His stomach clenched like a fist at the thought of falling, every cell in his body screaming until he came to a stop. He grabbed an upright post so hard his hand ached.

“Stay where you are!” yelled Proctor from the edge of the solid section of roof, his rifle still up.

Even if Rachel hadn’t wanted to obey, she didn’t have much choice. The rafters ahead were either too weak to hold her, or missing entirely. There was nothing that way except a long drop and a quick death. She clung to a post fifteen yards away, swaying so much that Kett expected her to fall. Instead, she inched around to face them, blinking against the glow of Proctor’s torch. One hand was clamped to her flank, just beneath her ribs, blood dripping between her fingers. The other clung on for dear life. She was as pale as parchment, and it took her a moment to find Kett.

“Now what?” she asked.

“You’re going to die,” he told her. “Judging by the look of that wound, you’ve got about ten minutes before you bleed out. And that’s if you don’t fall first. Walk back to us, slowly. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

Rachel’s lips peeled open into a smile, her teeth bloody. There was something vampiric about her, clinging to the trusses, her dark eyes full of malice.

“And then?” she said.

“You know what happens then. To you and your daughter.”

“She won’t go to prison,” said Rachel, struggling to pull in enough air to form the words. “You’ll never be able to prove that she wasn’t coerced. But you have no idea how evil she really is. How evil I made her. Gideon wasn’t my only project.”

Her foot slipped, and for a second it looked like she was going over. She grasped at the post, crying out in pain as she recovered her balance.

“Rachel,” said Savage, stepping up to the drop. “Are there any more victims out there? Are there any more kill rooms?”

“That’s just it,” said the woman, spitting crimson phlegm into the void. “You’ll never know. You’ll spend the rest of your days wondering where they are, who they were. You’ll dream every night of the horror of their final days, and you’ll know you were too slow to save them.”

She laughed quietly, her eyes losing focus.

“And that’s exactly why people will write about this,” she said. “Why they’ll speak about me in the same books as Manson and Corll. Because you’ll be finding bodies for years. For decades. Gideon’s. Others, too, the ones I tried to shape before him, and after. And every time you do, you’ll hear my name. It will pull off the scab, it will make that scar even worse.”

She looked at Kett.

“Unless we make a deal, of course,” she said. “Right here, right now. You let me walk away, and I’ll tell you where to find them. All of them.”

“Not going to happen,” said Kett. “But let us take you in, and we’ll see what we can do for Darcey.”

“Fuck Darcey,” she growled.

She flashed her bloody teeth, licking her lips. Her body was trembling, swaying back and forth on the crumbling joist. Kett didn’t know how she was still standing.

“What’s the plan?” said Proctor, his rifle still braced against his shoulder.

“This is your last chance to save them,” said Rachel. “Or their slow, agonising end will be on you.”

But something in the way her face seemed to lose its shape gave away the lie. She rested her head against the post, trying to swallow. Beneath her, the tactical team had moved away in case she fell. Their torches cut through the rafters, meeting those shards of sun from outside, trapping Rachel in a cage of light.

“Why did you do it?” asked Kett.

It seemed to take a while for his question to reach her, and longer still for her to look up at him.

“You know why,” she said, her voice weaker. “Because life is awful. It’s boring. It’s shit, all the way through, until death. Gideon wasn’t wrong about that, was he? Death is the only thing that sets us free. Death is the only thing that makes it interesting. It’s the only thing we can really look forward to. The dead mustn’t wake, because what do they have to come back to? This?”

She laughed, barely managing to hold on.

“I’m the most exciting thing that ever happened to them,” she said, little more than a whisper. “Without me⁠—”

Her foot lost purchase again, and she was too weak to hold on. She slipped off the joist, only just managing to grab it as she fell, her chest crunching into the wood. Her legs swung over the drop, dust and splinters and blood hailing to the stone floor below. Everyone in the main body of the chapel moved further back in a storm of torchlight.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Kett.

He gripped the next post and stepped carefully onto a rafter, hearing it splinter beneath him. Rachel struggled for purchase, trying to haul herself back up. Wet grunts punched from her throat. Her eyes were two blisters locked on Kett’s, her expression so full of fear that she looked possessed.

“Help me,” she said. “Help me, or you lose them forever.”

Kett stretched out a leg to reach the next rafter, only to feel a hand on his arm. Savage held onto him with an iron grip, shaking her head.

“It’s not worth it, sir,” she said.

Rachel swung like a hanged woman, her feet kicking. She was losing strength fast.

“You’re killing them,” she croaked.

Kett’s foot hovered over the next joist, but Savage clung to his arm, refusing to give him an inch.

“It’s a bluff,” she said.

Rachel’s nails gouged the wooden joist in one last attempt to save herself. Her eyes burned into Kett’s.

“Please,” she said.

And it was this that made him step back onto the safety of the boarded floor. How many times had her victims said the same thing? How many times had she heard them plead to Gideon for mercy?

And ignored them.

“No,” he said, anger driving the words up his throat. “And you know something, Rachel? They’ll be waiting for you, your dead. Wherever you end up, they’ll be waiting for you. I hope they never let you rest.”

There was enough time for the shock to register on her face, then her hands slipped free from the joist. She didn’t make a single noise as she fell, but the sound of her hitting the stone floor echoed around the building for what felt like an eternity.

“Fucking hell,” said Proctor, lowering his rifle.

The AFO spun around and vanished through the door, the floor shaking as he legged it down the stairs. Without his torch, the shadows flooded back in. Kett was happy for the relative dark, closing his eyes, only Savage’s grip on his arm keeping him upright, and keeping him safe. He felt himself sway, felt the darkness of the chapel yawning open beside him, ready to swallow him as easily as it had swallowed Rachel, if he let it.

And for a second, he thought about how easy that would be. To just let it.

A long drop. A quick death. No more pain, no more suffering.

No more monsters.

Death is the only thing that sets us free.

Then his girls seemed to swim out of the dark, their smiles, their laughter, the sheer joy of them, and he staggered away from the drop, letting Savage pull him to the door.

Only when they were back on the stairs did he remember to breathe.

“You okay?” Savage asked, still not letting go of him. Her eyes were bright in the dark stairwell, full of concern.

“I’m okay,” he told her. “I’m fine, Kate, I promise.”

He was grateful for the gloom, so she wouldn’t see the lie.

“Just tired,” he added, rubbing his eyes. “So, so tired.”

Savage held on for another few seconds before slowly letting go, her hand hovering there like she expected him to run.

“Are you okay?” asked Kett. “With what happened in there? With what happened to her?”

“Letting her die?” said Savage.

She stared into the shadows.

“Sometimes we have to embrace our darkness,” she said. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

He didn’t understand, and she didn’t explain. She set off, clattering down the steps. Kett moved more slowly, grateful to feel solid ground beneath his feet a minute or so later. He walked into the main body of the chapel, filtering through a crowd of PCs and AFOs who didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. Two of the tactical team squatted beside the body of Rachel Pratt, one speaking into his radio. Neither was attempting to bring her back, and as Kett walked past, he saw why.

She’d hit the flagstones headfirst, her madness spilled across the floor.

More coppers were gathered at the wall where Gideon’s victim hung from her wooden frame. Savage had reached her too, cradling the woman’s head, brushing the hair from her face, speaking in soft tones. She gave Kett a weak smile when he walked up.

“It’s Marla,” she said. “She’s alive.”

“Thank God,” said Kett.

“There’s more good news, too,” said Savage, nodding across the room. Two AFOs stood next to a table, where an open laptop sat next to a couple of streaming cameras. “Rachel and Darcey hadn’t cleared out yet. With any luck…”

She didn’t finish, as if she didn’t want to jinx it.

“The cameras?” asked Kett.

“Not recording,” she told him. “They must have switched them off before we arrived.”

The chapel door crashed open, a paramedic jogging through. It was the same one who had been at the last kill room, and she hesitated for a second, steeling herself. She made a beeline for Rachel, but Kett clicked his fingers.

“Forget about her,” he said. “We need help over here.”

“Another one?” she asked as she trotted up, slinging her bag onto the floor.

“The last one,” said Kett. “I think. Her name’s Marla. We’re going to need to cut her down.”

“Came prepared this time,” the woman said, pulling a pair of wire cutters from her pocket. She turned back as the second paramedic ran in, yelling, “Hurry up, Mick!”

She flapped Kett out of the way, moving in to examine the girl. Kett stepped back and kept walking. Savage went with him, making her way carefully around the halo of blood that ringed Rachel’s head. He stopped at the door, where the warm air did its best to clear the stench of death from his sinuses, thawing the cemetery chill inside his bones.

“You really think she’s his last one?” said Savage.

“I hope so,” Kett replied. “But Rachel was right, Kate. We might never know for sure.”

“We will. We’ve got their equipment. We’ve got Darcey. If Gideon was keeping anyone else out there, we’ll find them.”

“And what if it isn’t just Gideon?” he said. “You heard her. What if he wasn’t her only plaything? You kill the king rat and a dozen more scuttle out. There could be another killer, more than one.”

“Then we’ll find them too, sir,” said Savage. “It’s what we do. It’s what you do.”

Kett nodded, breathing out slowly.

It’s what I do, he thought. Until death.

Because sooner or later, the job would kill him too.

“Bag the laptop,” he said. “Let’s get it back to HQ.”

He walked along the corridor, heading outside. The sun was low, and so bright that he didn’t see Porter running over until the DI was right beside him.

“You got her,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“We got her,” said Kett, using his hand to shield his eyes. “She’s dead.”

“Far too quick, if you ask me. She didn’t deserve to go out that easy.”

Porter nodded to an IRV, which was rocking on its wheels with some fury. Darcey was visible through the back window, thrashing in her seat. Duke stood next to it, stroking his moustache and staring into space.

“She’s back on her feet,” said Porter. “We were going to put her in an ambulance, but when she started trying to headbutt everyone we figured she was alright. Waiting for a van.”

“Does she know about her mum?” asked Kett, and Porter shook his head.

“Gonna want a solid set of bars between her and whoever gives her that news. Oh!”

He threw his hands up, a smile on his face.

“You hear? Super’s awake.”

“He’s alright?” said Kett.

“Better than alright,” said Porter. “Back to normal, from the sounds of it. Tossing so loudly he was scaring the other patients, apparently.”

The laugh spilled out of Kett, unexpected but welcome. He felt as if a weighted vest had been pulled from his shoulders and he straightened, taking a deep, evening-scented breath.

“That’s great,” he said. “That’s really great.”

“What’s great?” said Savage as she walked out of the chapel. The laptop was under her arm, wrapped tight in an evidence bag.

“Clare’s awake,” said Porter. “He’s going to be alright. Arm’s reattached. Be a while before he can use it, but they think it’ll take.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said, and it looked like there were tears in her eyes, glistening in the molten sunlight. “Thank God.”

“What are you all talking about?” called Duke, jogging over from the car.

“I’m not going to say it a third time,” said Porter, folding his arms over his chest.

“Clare’s okay,” said Kett. “He’s awake.”

“That’s amazing,” said Duke, his chin expanding as he smiled.

“Paramedics think Marla’s going to be alright too,” said Savage. “She’s been there a while, but it looks like Gideon was feeding her, keeping her hydrated. He’s been treating her wounds, too.”

“A happy ending,” said Duke, with a nod of satisfaction. “Kind of.”

“There’s nothing happy about that thing,” said Porter, nodding at the PC’s damp upper lip. “Looks like a sad little prawn orphaned at birth and about to be eaten by a whale.”

He waggled a finger in Duke’s direction.

“The whale is your enormous face, in case you didn’t get that,” he said.

“Rather look like a whale than a gorilla’s muff, sir,” said Duke, almost too quietly for anyone to hear.

“A what?” said Porter, stepping towards him. “Say that again, Constable.”

“A gorilla’s—” started Duke, but Kett pushed in between them.

“Enough!” he said. “It has been way too long a day for this. New rule for the Extreme Crime Task Force, everybody shaves. Agreed?”

Savage put her hand up.

“I wouldn’t mind if Aaron grew his beard back, sir,” she said. “As much as I love his… chin, and everything.”

“Everyone shaves,” Kett said. “No exceptions. Aaron, find a car, we need to get this laptop back to HQ and make sure we’re not missing anyone. Pete, check on the van. Darcey needs to be in custody so we can question her.”

The two men ran off, still bickering with each other. Kett turned to Savage.

“And Kate,” he said. “Thank you.”

“For what, sir?”

“For holding me back up there,” he told her. “For keeping me alive.”

The sun lit up the lines of her frown.

“You’re okay?” she asked. “Really?”

He blew out a sigh, trying to summon the lie before realising he didn’t have to. It was Savage, after all. She knew him better than he knew himself.

“No,” he said. “I’m not okay, Kate.”

She nodded.

“I’ll get this someplace safe,” she said, heading off with the laptop.

Kett watched her go after the others, then he turned to the chapel. It looked so much bigger than it had when they’d arrived, the peaked roof impossibly high. Even with the light splashed across its face, the building seemed dark, shrouded by the shadow of what had happened there.

He thought about the feeling he’d had inside, in the roof: the open floor, the long drop, the promise of a quick death. It hadn’t been a genuine consideration, not even close. It had been the exhaustion talking, and the fear, and the anger.

But it had been something else, too. Something he’d never really considered before.

They’ll be waiting for you, he’d told Rachel. Your dead. Wherever you end up, they’ll be waiting for you. I hope they never let you rest.

Because the awful truth was that his dead would be waiting for him, too. Whenever it happened. However it happened. He’d find them there.

And there were so many of them.

“Christ,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

A siren bleeped, and he almost shed his skin in fright. He glared at an IRV on the far side of the yard, seeing Duke behind the wheel. Savage was climbing into the back, Porter waving to him from the open passenger door.

Kett glanced at the chapel one more time. He’d lied. Marla wouldn’t be the last. There would always be more victims because there would always be more murderers, more psychopaths, more madmen—and madwomen. Savage was right, it was getting worse.

It would always get worse.

But Gideon was dead. Rachel was dead. They had Marla, and she was going to be okay.

Clare was going to be okay.

It wasn’t a happy ending, not by a long stretch. But it would have to do.

The siren bleeped again.

“Alright,” he yelled.

He allowed himself to turn away from the chapel, limping across the yard.

“I’m coming.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Kett woke slowly, rising from a golden nest of sleep. He tried to roll over in bed, feeling an arm across his chest. Billie, he thought, and he opened his eyes to see his wife beside him, her round face smiling, her chin bulging, her moustache twitching.

He screamed, his knees jerking up and hitting the chair in front. He tried to move but the seat belt held him in place. He screamed again, and this time Duke screamed with him, the PC almost falling out of the open door of the car.

“The hell is going on?” yelled Kett, unbuckling himself.

He was still in the IRV, he realised, the one they’d taken back to the city. He put a hand to his chest, his heart thrashing faster now than when he’d been standing on the rafters in the chapel.

“I was waking you up, sir,” said Duke from outside.

“With what? A kiss? Did you ever hear of a gentle tap on the window?”

“I tried that,” he said. “Then a louder tap, then a shout. I figured a poke would do the trick.”

Kett opened the door, his body protesting as he got out. Everything hurt, and the pins and needles that filled his feet made it a million times worse. They were in the car park of Norfolk Constabulary’s HQ, the sun hidden behind the building, the skies darkening. When he checked his watch, he saw that it was after eight.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Hours,” said Duke. “You dozed off on the ride over and nobody had the heart to disturb you. You look like a baby when you’re asleep, sir.”

“Bloody do not,” he said, limping towards the entrance. “You should have woken me, Aaron, we’ve still got work to do. Where’s Darcey?”

“In the Interview Room,” said Duke, walking by his side. “Porter and Kate are handling it.”

“Marla?”

“In hospital.” Duke opened the door for him. Kett walked into the oven of the lobby, keeping his head down until he was out the other side. “She’s doing okay.”

“Rachel?”

“Still dead,” said Duke as they made their way to the offices of the Major Investigation Team.

Kett stopped outside the door, too afraid to ask. Duke read his mind.

“Clare’s good,” said the PC. “Getting stronger by the second. Kate said to meet her in the IR.”

Kett nodded his appreciation, then headed into the bullpen. Most of the detectives and constables who had been working the case were gone, and the handful that remained gave him little more than a passing glance. The Incident Room was empty, other than the faces who looked down at him from the evidence wall. Nobody had found time to add Rachel and Darcey; there was only Gideon to represent the bad guys, his shaven head and his small eyes. He wasn’t a victim in all this, not even close, but there was a part of Kett that felt sorry for the man. First his mother, then Rachel. He hadn’t stood a chance.

He pulled Gideon’s photograph from the wall and scrunched it into a ball, throwing it into the bin. It wouldn’t help him forget, but at least he didn’t have to look at him any more.

He’d only just hung his jacket on the back of a chair when Savage walked through the door. She held it open for Porter, who staggered in after her with four mugs in his hand. Duke was hot on their heels.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, sir,” said Savage when she saw Kett.

“You should have woken me, Kate,” he said.

“We tried, sir, but you looked so sweet. Like a baby.”

“That’s what I said!” said Duke.

“I do not look like a baby,” said Kett.

“Bloody ugly baby,” said Porter, dropping the mugs on the desk and spilling a puddle of tea. “If Bobby had come out looking like you do now, I’d have told him to go back in.”

“I don’t look like a…”

He stopped, sniffing the air, distracted by the heavenly smell of tea.

“Who made this?” he asked.

“I did, sir,” said Savage. “He’s only carrying them.”

Kett still gave Porter a suspicious look. If anyone could taint a cuppa just by touching it, it was him.

“And we didn’t use the haunted teapot, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said the DI.

Kett picked up the closest mug, holding it to his chest and inhaling the fragrant steam.

“You’ve been in with Darcey?” he asked.

Porter and Savage shared a look.

“She’s… something else,” said Savage. “Won’t admit to anything, and she’s smart. She must have known she’d get caught one day because she’s telling us everything a victim would. She’s rehearsed the whole thing. Claiming it’s all her mum’s fault, all Gideon’s fault, all Simon’s fault. Saying that she was brainwashed by all of them. Doesn’t even seem to care that her mum’s dead, or maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet. Rachel was right, it’s going to be hard to prove she wasn’t coerced.”

“But we will,” said Porter. “Sooner or later, she’ll slip up. Good news is there’s nobody else out there. According to Darcey, we got them all, and the files on the laptop back that up. AFOs searched the crypt near Dereham, couple of other places that Rachel left off the list. All clear. Marla was the last of the Reaper’s victims.”

“And that’s not all that was on the laptop,” said Savage. “It’s Rachel’s entire database, all the financial stuff. Lists of anyone who ever joined that livestream, anyone who watched. Digital forensics are all over it. They say it’s mostly anonymous, but everyone leaves a trace. We’ll get them. They’re as much a part of all this as anyone else.”

“Still don’t understand why anybody would want to see it,” said Duke, his face miserable. “Who would pay to see somebody die? Die like that?”

“Because people are monsters,” said Savage. “Snuff films have been around for decades. It’s only the technology that’s changed.”

Kett took a sip of his tea, far too hot but blissfully good. It seared into his empty stomach like a fireball.

“Cara’s team finished searching Gideon’s house,” Savage went on. “Found some interesting stuff. He wrote a longer manifesto, an explanation for why he did what he did. He genuinely believed he was helping his victims get to heaven.”

“The lights and the music were his way of sending them there faster,” said Porter.

“How?” said Kett.

“It’s all tied into his childhood,” said Savage. She sipped her tea, swallowing noisily. “Ow. Hot. Tied into his father’s death. Alan Sherman was briefly resuscitated, when he drowned. He lived for a few hours, apparently. Meredith claimed that because he’d fought to come back, to stay alive, he’d rejected heaven. He wouldn’t get to go. Gideon became obsessed with that. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, to be honest. His manifesto talks about how his mum punished any transgressions with bright lights and fire, and with loud noise. She told him it would drive his soul from his body. He believed her, believed it would purge him, somehow. He was trying to help his victims escape life the only way he knew how.”

“Right,” said Kett. “And the crucifixes?”

“It’s tied in with the Resurrection,” said Savage. “Christ was the only one to wake from the dead and still get to heaven.”

“Nuts,” commented Porter.

“Rachel understood all this,” said Savage. “She knew exactly how to control Gideon, how to pluck at those strings, how to exploit his beliefs. She was the monster, she…”

“She’s dead,” said Kett, when she didn’t finish. “They were working together, then? Gideon and the Pratts?”

“Yes and no,” said Savage. “I think it was more that Gideon tolerated them being there, because Rachel told him that the films would help, that they’d reinforce the identity of the Reaper. He didn’t know that people were watching, he thought it was all for him.”

“Nuts,” Porter said again. “There’s a whole bunch of updates. I can talk you through them?”

“Can they wait?” asked Kett.

“Yeah,” said Porter. “They can wait. But you’ll probably want to know that Marla’s doing okay, she’s stable. Kathryn’s talking, although she doesn’t remember much. The guy from the barn’s off the critical list. Even Lina’s on the mend. Doctors don’t know how she’s got the strength to come back from that, but she is.”

“Good news,” said Kett. “What about Simon?”

“They’ve got the barbed wire off, stitched the lacerations, and patched up the bullet wound,” said Porter. “He’s conscious. Claims he didn’t know anything, that he just lent his kit to Darcey hoping she’d sleep with him. He says he was head over heels in love with her. Truly, madly.”

“Deadly,” said Duke.

“She attacked him in the flat yesterday morning,” Porter went on. “Not long after you’d left. She knew he’d give her away. Rachel picked him up in the Merc and took him to the barn. Darcey followed them on the bike. He doesn’t know why they kept him alive.”

“You believe him?” asked Kett.

Porter shrugged.

“Not sure I believe any of this,” he said.

“We only really woke you because we’re about to drive over to the hospital, to see Clare,” said Savage. “Thought you’d want to come.”

Kett nodded. They all stood there for a while, in silence, as they drank their tea. One by one, they set their empty mugs on the desk.

“Your face fanny is dripping, Aaron,” said Porter as he left the room. “Sort it out.”

“Don’t call Dave a face fanny,” said Duke, smearing his sleeve over his moustache. “He doesn’t like it.”

He jogged after Porter, and Savage followed.

“Turn the lights out when you’re done, sir,” she said as she left the room.

Kett walked to the door and stopped, looking back at that wall of faces. Amongst the survivors were the dead, Gideon’s victims. As awful as their end had been, Kett hoped the man had been right. He hoped he’d sent them somewhere good.

He put his hand on the switch, then pulled it away.

He couldn’t bear to leave them in the dark.

It was immediately apparent, the second that Kett walked through the ward door, how well Superintendent Clare was recovering. The man’s voice rang out from the other end of the corridor, a booming shout that chased a young nurse from the room. She scuttled past the Extreme Crime Task Force as they walked up, her eyes wide.

“And this time, make sure it’s a Bounty!” Clare roared after her.

Kett knocked on the door, peering into the room to see the Superintendent sitting up in bed. He was dressed in his hospital gown, his bare feet poking out the end of his bedding, hairy toes wiggling. His arm was bandaged tight against his body, and his face was the same colour as his sheets.

“Oh good,” he snapped, glaring at Kett. “Just when I thought the worst part of my day was having my tossing arm cut off.”

Kett entered the room, making way for the others.

“And it gets better!” said Clare. “Just what I wanted, a visit from all five of you.”

“Five, sir?” said Savage.

“Yes, five. You, Kett, Porter, Duke, and that wombat scrotum which apparently now lives on Duke’s face.”

Porter snorted a laugh. Kett moved closer to the bed, putting a hand on the footboard to steady himself. The last of the evening light washed through the window, dappling the floor and the walls. Somewhere outside, a song thrush was calling.

“How’re you doing, sir?” he asked.

Clare took a long breath before he answered, his voice weaker.

“Better, Robbie. They’ve managed to reattach it, looks like I won’t be losing it after all. But for a little while there…”

He licked his dry lips, looking past Kett to where Savage stood.

“Thank you, Kate,” he said. “They say the only reason I’m still here is because of you.”

Savage answered with a gentle smile.

“So,” said Clare. “You got Gideon? And the others?”

“Yeah,” said Kett. “We did.”

“And the victims?”

“The ones who were alive when we found them are going to be okay,” said Porter. “I mean, not okay, because nobody’s going to be okay after that, but they’re going to survive.”

“Surviving’s the best we can hope for, all of us,” said the Super, looking at his bandaged arm. He turned to the door, yelling again. “Although I don’t know what the point of surviving is when I can’t get a bloody chocolate bar!”

His voice broke, and he coughed. He arched his head back, gritting his yellow teeth, obviously in pain.

“We’ll go, sir,” said Kett. “We just wanted to check in.”

“With a fine collection of cards and fruit baskets, I see,” said the Superintendent, making a show of looking around. “Not even a bowl of toss, you ingrates.”

“It’s been a long day,” said Porter. “I’ll grab you a Bounty on the way out.”

This seemed to mollify the man. He rested his head on his pillow, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Good work,” he said. “All of you. Go home. Get some rest. You’ll need it, because you’re going to have paperwork coming out of your tossholes for the next six months.”

He sighed.

“And because it’s not over,” he went on. “It will never be over. They’ll keep coming.”

“Sir?” said Kett.

“Them,” said Clare. “That endless stream of evil bastards. We put one away, and two more crawl out from beneath a rock. Every mother’s son has something terrible to hide. Enjoy the quiet, because it won’t last.”

Kett turned to the window, seeing the world outside, listening to the thrush, the beautiful twin beat of its song. He almost heard words in it.

I quit. I quit. I quit.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, sir,” he said, speaking before he even knew he was doing it. “About the future, about… about the job.”

He stopped, because he didn’t know how to say it. Nobody spoke. It felt like the entire room was holding its breath.

“I think I need to go,” he said, his voice quiet. “I don’t think I can do it any more. I think I’m…”

He struggled, the words tying themselves into knots. He thought of Billie, he thought of his girls, he thought of what his life could be.

And he spat it out.

“I’m handing in my notice, sir,” he said.

It felt almost like he’d grown wings and left the ground, the sheer relief of it.

The joy lasted the five seconds or so it took Clare to reply.

“No you’re tossing not, Robert. I won’t accept it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said Kett. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” said Clare. “I’m going to be out of action for a while, and you’re taking over. I told you before, Detective, I’m never letting you go. Not now, not ever. You’re mine. Forever.”

“Uh…” said Kett, looking to Porter and seeing the DI shrug his shoulders. “I think maybe I’ll write a letter?”

“Only if you want me to eat it,” said Clare. “Now shut your pie hole. I may have only just had my arm stitched back on, but it doesn’t mean I won’t give you a damn good fisting with it!”

The nurse had returned halfway through Clare’s heartfelt speech, and she did an almost perfect one-eighty before escaping through the door.

“It doesn’t mean what he thinks it means!” Savage shouted.

“Speaking of fisting,” the Super went on, “let’s finish this bloody marriage.”

“What?” said Savage with a grimace.

“You and Joseph Stalin over there,” said Clare. “This case ruined your big day, but it doesn’t mean you can’t tie the knot. I’m a celebrant, I can do it right here.”

“It’s really fine, sir,” said Savage, looking to Duke for help. “It can wait.”

“No it can’t,” spat Clare. “Aaron Duke, do you accept this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”

“Wait,” said Duke. “Are we actually doing this?”

“No,” said Savage.

“To have and to hold,” the Super went on. “For richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, blah blah blah, until death do you part?”

“Uh, yes?” said Duke.

“No!” said Savage, giving her fiancé a stern look.

“Kate Savage,” Clare said. “Do you take this man, and his hideous facial hair, to be your⁠—”

“I’m going,” said Savage, practically running out of the door. Her voice echoed back: “I’m glad you’re doing better, sir!”

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Clare shouted after her. “So, by the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Duke stood there, twiddling his thumbs.

“Go kiss the bride, you knob,” the Super told him.

The PC ran off, the sound of his feet echoing down the corridor. Kett looked at Porter, neither of them sure what to say.

“Job done,” said Clare, closing his eyes. “Now toss off and let me sleep.”

All Savage wanted to do was go home, but the day wasn’t quite finished yet.

Duke caught up to her as she was walking into the car park, lunging in for a clumsy kiss. She recoiled, her hands up like he was coming at her with a bat.

“I am not your bride, Aaron,” she said. “Not yet, and not like that.”

“It might be too late,” said Duke with a frown. “He said all the words. I think we’re married.”

“We’re not married,” she told him.

He looked upset, so she took his big hand, holding it in both of hers.

“But we will be, Aaron,” she said. “In time. When all this has blown over. We’ll have our day.”

She remembered Enid’s words, outside the police station. Her prediction.

I have seen your wedding, child, and it is a thing of glory.

It made her feel worse. It made her feel like her happiness had been tainted by the case, and by the job. It made her feel like none of this was hers any more.

“Or not,” she said. “Maybe we don’t need to be married, maybe this is enough?”

Duke frowned, planting his free hand on top of hers.

“Is it enough?” he said.

“Yeah, Aaron. Of course it is. This, right here, right now. Being with you is all I want. It’s all I need.”

He smiled, his eyes full of kindness, full of love.

“It’s all I need too,” he said. “But, you know, I did organise the whole thing, and I was excited about the flowers, and…”

He petered out, and she laughed.

“As long as we don’t tell Clare about it, I’m happy to do whatever you want,” she said. “In time.”

“In time,” he echoed. “As much time as you need, Kate.”

He seemed to remember something, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the little plastic bride from the wedding cake. He handed it to her, before holding up the matching groom. He’d managed to stick the head back on with Blu Tack.

“Now give your hunky husband-to-be a smooch,” he said in a deep voice, jiggling the little man. “Because he wuvs you.”

Savage laughed, pressing the face of the bride against the groom. They made a kissy noise together.

“That’s just wrong,” said Porter as the lobby door slid open.

He walked out, Kett right behind him. Duke held up the groom, still speaking in his dramatic voice.

“You’re just jealous of my moustache,” he said.

Porter gave the groom’s head a flick and it flew off. Duke squeaked, running into the road to collect it.

“So, you guys officially married, then?” asked Porter.

“I’m not sure,” said Savage, putting the plastic bride in her pocket.

She turned to Kett.

“What about you?” she asked. “Did you really just hand in your notice?”

“I’m not sure,” he said.

He laughed, but it dried up after a second or two. He stared across the car park, at the night that gathered on the horizon. He looked far older than his years. He looked broken, and not just the way he stood with his back bent, not just the scars. Savage had said it to him before, so many times. You have to give a piece of yourself to save everyone else. And she didn’t know anyone who’d given as much of himself as Kett had.

She’d miss him, if he went. The Force would miss him. But she understood.

“I’m not sure,” he said again, turning back. “Maybe I just need some space. But this job, Kate...”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his warrant card. He studied it for a moment or two, then offered it to her. She didn’t want to take it, because she didn’t know what it meant, but he held it there until she did. When she opened it up, she saw the Robert Kett who’d shown up in Norwich before the Paper Girls case, the one with a missing wife and three little girls in tow, the one she’d first met all those years ago.

It could have been a different person.

“For your wedding,” he said. “Whenever it is.”

“Sir,” she started. “I⁠—”

“Something borrowed, Kate. Just until I work out what I need to do. It doesn’t mean it’s the end.”

Savage nodded, closing the warrant card and sliding it into her pocket, next to her own. They stood there for a little while, listening to a lonely siren call into the evening. Then Duke checked his watch.

“We’d better go, Sarge,” he said. “Or we’re never going to clear it all out.”

“The church?” said Porter.

“Yeah, we need to move our stuff,” said Savage. “Wedding’s officially over.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said the DI.

“No need,” said Duke, a little too quickly. “There’s not much.”

“It’s no problem,” said Porter. “You’ll probably need somebody with some actual upper body strength for the heavy stuff, Kate, and I can’t see Joshy anywhere.”

“Really, sir, it’s okay,” said Savage.

“It’s fine!” Porter insisted. “I’m happy to. You’re married now, you need to relax.”

“We’re not married,” said Savage.

“Besides,” said Porter, heading off. “We should check on Balls. He’s probably still out there looking for his keys.”

“Oh God,” said Savage.

“And it’s got to be better than going home to an empty house,” Porter called back. “We can go for a drink after, maybe a movie, maybe a club. Hey, we can hit Kabanas. I’ll get the car!”

Savage watched him go with a sigh.

“So much for a bit of alone time,” said Duke. “He’s a detective, how did he not get the hint? It’s our official honeymoon.”

“We’re not bloody married!” said Savage, giving him a clip around the arm.

Duke walked away, stroking his moustache. Savage turned to Kett again.

“You’ve got to do what’s right for you, sir,” she said. “But either way, you’ve done enough. You’ve done more than enough.”

She gave him a hug, feeling his arms tight on her back, feeling a tremor deep inside him, as if he was a piece of clockwork machinery winding down to the end.

“Go home, Robbie,” she said when they’d parted. “You’ve got folk waiting for you.”

Savage was right.

They were waiting for him.

Kett saw them as soon as he climbed out of the taxi, his wife and his daughters standing in the living room like they’d sensed he was on his way home. They were framed in the big window, the two little ones in their pyjamas, Alice off her phone for once in her life and talking to her mum. It would have been a picture-perfect scene, if Evie and Moira hadn’t been wrestling each other on the back of the sofa, their faces red with anger, their shouts audible from the street.

Billie spotted him, lifting her hand. He waved back, crunching down the drive. He tapped on the glass as he passed the window, Evie and Moira finally noticing he was there and bursting into a round of cheers. They jumped off the sofa together, Moira faceplanting.

“Girls!” came Billie’s muffled voice.

Kett walked to the front door, too tired to bother searching for his keys. It flew open a moment later, Evie yammering at him.

“It wasn’t my fault! She fell!”

“She pushed me!” Moira yelled as she ran out of the living room. “She did it deliberately and pushed me on my face! She’s a farty butt cheese.”

“You’re a farty butt cheese!”

“Girls!” Billie said again as she appeared. “I thought you wanted to show Daddy your Lego.”

It was like a switch had been flicked, both girls bolting for the kitchen.

“I want to show him first!” one of them shouted, but he didn’t know who.

Billie leaned against the doorframe, looking every bit as exhausted as he did.

“Long day?” he said.

“Aren’t they all?” she replied.

She studied his face for a moment, frowning. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but in the end, he didn’t need to say anything, because she’d always been able to read him like a book.

“You did it?” she said, standing straight. She was shaking her head like she didn’t believe it.

“Kind of,” he told her. “But it’s only temporary, it’s⁠—”

Billie threw herself at him, wrapping him in her arms, pushing her face against his neck. He held her tight, feeling the full force of her sobs. It could have been a hundred years later that she let go of him, planting a kiss on his lips. She tasted like chocolate.

“Thank you,” she said, kissing him again.

Alice walked into the hallway behind her mum, pulling a face.

“Ew, get a room,” she said, before heading into the kitchen.

“Get used to it,” Kett called after her. He looked at his wife, putting his hand to her cheek, smudging away a tear with his thumb. “Because I’m going to be around a lot more.”

Billie pulled free, the smile on her face brighter than he’d ever seen it.

“Let’s get takeaway,” she said. “I’ve got a bottle in the fridge. We should celebrate.”

“A cup of tea will do me,” he said.

But she was having none of it. She ran into the kitchen, and a few seconds later another cheer rang out.

“Pizza!” shouted Evie.

“I want Chinese,” Alice countered.

“Kebab!” came a Godzilla-like roar from Moira.

“Girls!”

Kett laughed. A proper laugh, the first one he’d had in forever. He glanced back at the street, at the settling night. There would always be monsters out there. There would always be bad guys.

But there were good guys as well. Porter. Savage. Duke.

Clare, too.

They’d be okay without him, even if it was just for a little while.

You’ve done enough, Robert Kett, he told himself.

This, right here, was all he needed—a happy life, a safe life—and he walked inside, closing the door behind him.

He was home.

IF YOU ENJOYED UNTIL DEATH…

Please consider leaving a rating or a review on Amazon. It really helps spread the word, and allows other people like you to discover DCI Kett and his family.

Thank you!

DCI KETT WILL RETURN… IN 2027!

Click here to preorder!

CASE HISTORY

DCI Robert Kett will return in 2027…

Preorder Now!

Kett’s other cases are also available to buy now!

PAPER GIRLS

sees Kett on his first case in Norfolk as he tries to find two missing newspaper delivery girls before they’re murdered.

BAD DOG

sees Kett on the trail of the legendary Black Shuck, a ferocious beast believed to be responsible for killing a young woman in the woods.

THREE LITTLE PIGS

sees Kett finally discover the horrific truth about what happened to his wife—but can he find her alive?

WHIP CRACK

sees Kett investigate a chilling series of disappearances on the North Norfolk Coast.

RUN RABBIT RUN

sees Kett turn from hunter to prey as some dangerous old enemies resurface.

STONE COLD DEAD

sees Kett, Savage and Porter investigate a possible serial killer who is leaving his victims on Norfolk’s sacred stones.

EVERY MOTHER’S SON

sees Kett, Savage and Porter going undercover in a religious community to try to solve a double murder and save a kidnapped baby.

SWEET BRIAR ROSE

sees Kett and the team follow a trail of bloody clues to try to save five missing women from a twisted serial killer obsessed with fairy tales.

JAW BREAKER

sees Kett and the team caught in the middle of a civil war when two men are killed by a lethal new designer drug called Jaw Breaker.

KNOCK KNOCK

sees DCI Kett and the Extreme Crime Task Force chasing a monstrous killer who delivers body parts to random houses across the city.

KING RAT

sees Kett fighting for his life, and the rest of the Extreme Crime Task Force fighting against time, when Hollenbeck launch a terrifying attack.

KNUCKLE BONES

sees Kett and the team on the hunt for a murderous bone collector after a chamber of horrors is uncovered in the city.

LUCKY NUMBER SEVEN

sees Kett and the Extreme Crime Task Force chasing a ruthless serial killer obsessed with the number seven.

UNHOLY SAINTS

sees DCI Kett put his Christmas plans on hold when the body of a man dressed as Santa is found inside a chimney.

TRULY MADLY DEADLY

sees DCI Kett and the team hunting a ruthless serial killer who forces married couples to fight to the death.

EVERY LAST DEVIL

sees the Extreme Crime Task Force on the hunt for a killer who might be the Devil himself, after a teenage girl is kidnapped from a church.

RED LINE

sees DCI Kett investigating a terrifying urban legend when a teenage boy is found dead in a remote playground.

COLD IRON KILLS

sees the Extreme Crime Task Force go to hell and back in order to hunt down the final members of Hollenbeck.

TIN SOLDIERS

sees DCI Kett and the team hunting a brutal serial killer who removes their victim’s eyes and replaces them with balls of molten tin.

OUT NOW…

A brand-new crime thriller series set in the world of DCI Kett.

See DI Harrison Baird in his first three cases:

A LONG-DEAD THING

OPEN WOUNDS

MAD DOGS

Buy now,

or read on to find out more!

A LONG-DEAD THING

THE FIRST DI HARRISON THRILLER

It may be heaven on earth, but now hell has broken loose...

When a raid on a gang of people smugglers in Aberdeen goes wrong, impulsive Police Scotland detective DI Harrison Baird faces the worst punishment imaginable: relocation to England.

Posted in the sleepy seaside town of Southwold, and partnered with the apparently clueless DC Connie Connell, Baird finds himself in a world that’s totally different to the gritty Scottish streets he’s used to. Here, the biggest problem seems to be what topping to put on his ice cream, and how to avoid eating DI Henry Crump’s awful fish pie.

But beneath the surface, the Suffolk coast hides a terrifying darkness. One night, a body is washed ashore—a long-dead thing—and in its eye is a silver coin.

When more bodies follow, each murdered more brutally than the last, Baird realises that he’s arrived just in time to face a ruthless serial killer—one who seems to be targeting members of a powerful local crime family.

It’s clear that things down south are not always what they seem. And sometimes, even in the most peaceful of places, you need to play hardball.

The first in a brand new series from multi-million copy bestseller Alex Smith, author of the DCI Kett books, A Long-Dead Thing has all the compulsive mystery, gripping action and hilarious comedy readers have come to love. Welcome to Southwold!

Available to buy now!

PROLOGUE

Saturday

“Get them nets in, Derek, or we’ll be going down with ‘em.”

The sea was in a tizzy, the swells trying to lift the boat like an angry toddler, trying to shake and spill its contents into the churning water. The Liberty was half a century old and it felt its age, its tired body quaking with every bounce and shake. Water sluiced over the deck and through the broken window on the port side, hitting the inside of the windscreen where the wipers couldn’t shift it. Past the mosaic of droplets, Arnold Mutton could see the pilot, Patrick Holt, his hard face gurning as he fought to steady the boat. They’d been best friends for going on fifty years, but that friendship had never been tested as thoroughly as it had today.

“West!” roared Arnold, his words snatched by the wind as easily as gulls taking fish, carried off into the glowering sky. “Watch them swells, Pat!”

Southwold was a glow on the horizon, a strip of land muted by the night. It felt too far away, the lighthouse reaching for them like a worried parent stretching to recover a drowning child. Fortresses of foaming seawater raised themselves between the boat and land, the valleys between them choked with angry currents. Arnold jabbed a finger behind him as if Pat needed any reminder of where he should be going.

“That way!”

The boat tilted into a valley between the waves and Arnold clung to the railing, his stomach wheeling, his palms blistered from the salt. Somewhere to the east, the sky rumbled, the sound of a predator who’s spotted prey. The clouds rushed in, a dark current heading inland—somehow blacker even than the night—pulling the hungry storm behind them.

“The nets, Derek!” Arnold shouted, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t see the third man on their crew past the wheelhouse. For all he knew, he’d fallen overboard. “Christ, I’ll do it my-bloody-self!”

He set off along the narrow walkway, the boat dancing under his feet. The sea was churned into a fury, the fish hiding in the quiet deep. The squall had come out of nowhere, or at least that’s what it had felt like. If the boat’s radar had been working, and if Pat hadn’t ignored the forecast, and if Arnold hadn’t been down in the engine room trying to fix the leaky motor, then they would have seen it coming from a mile off.

“And not gone out!” Arnold yelled as he passed the broken window, finishing the thoughts out loud. Patrick glared at him from inside like this was his fault, his eyes gimlets.

“Quit your bitching, Arn,” Patrick shouted back, the wheel spinning through his fingers. “You’re whinier than⁠—”

The wind and the wild waves censored him, crushing his words into silence. Arnold would have thrown him the bird if he’d dared let go. Instead, he pushed through the freezing spray, the boat bucking and twisting like an angry mule, groaning like a living thing.

The truth was, of course, that they would have had to go out whatever the weather. It wasn’t like they had a choice, not this time.

A wave rolled into the side of them, a half-ton of water that hit like a charging bull. Arnold’s knees buckled, his grip on the railing the only thing between him and the bottom of the sea. He struggled up, thunder jeering him as he reached the back of the boat. Derek was there, the kid struggling with the winch, his young face creased into an old man’s grimace by the wind and the water.

“Kick the lock off,” Arnold shouted as he reached him.

He pushed Derek out of the way and drove his boot into the mechanism. The gears started turning, the winch spinning out of control until Arnold hooked his leg behind it. Another wave thumped into their starboard side and the boat veered, Derek on his arse and sliding towards the edge. The kid braced himself against the railing with his boots, then scrambled back up, one hand on his bright yellow sou-wester as he crossed the deck. How that hat was still on his head was a mystery.

“Grab it,” Arnold said, and the kid moved in, spitting salt and retching hard.

They took hold of the crank together, finding their rhythm after a couple of false starts. The boom shuddered as the nets began to rise, the engine growling beneath them, choking the air with fumes. Past the stern, the North Sea was armoured like goosebumps all the way to the end of the world, a living thing if Arnold had ever seen one.

They turned the crank, the net rising from the spume, heavier than it ought to have been considering they’d only been out a few hours and they hadn’t even been after the fish. It wasn’t hard to see why. Something had landed itself there amongst the shivering catch, a lump of darkness the size of a shark. Arnold kept hauling, the fire in his muscles barely dampened by the waves, by the rain. He kept hauling until the winch snapped still. The net hung there, swinging madly. Freed from its drag, the boat steadied, cutting towards the shore.

“What’s that?” asked Derek, using both hands to wipe his face, his bright eyes peering between his fingers at whatever sat in their net.

“Tunny, maybe,” said Arnold, squinting. “Halibut? Big’un.”

They weren’t here for the fish, but it was a nice catch anyway. A fish that size would fetch a fortune, a hundred and sixty pounds of fishmeat all in one.

“Get it in,” he said.

Together they swung the boom around, the fish slowly gasping into silence and stillness. Water drummed onto the deck, the smell of the ocean catching in the back of Arnold’s throat, filling his skull. He loosened the tie and the net vomited its haul into a slippery pile. The fish flowed and flapped around his boots—streaks of silver and grey garnished with seaweed and the inevitable gorge of plastic.

The big, black fish hit the deck like a long-dead thing.

Only it was no fish, he realised, unless it was one that had already been wrapped. It was mummified in binbags, although scraps had been torn away to reveal the soft treasure beneath. His stomach knew what it was long before his brain had caught up, the sickness roiling in him nothing to do with the tumbling boat.

“Is that…” started Derek, still rubbing at his face. “What is that, Arn?”

“Nothin’,” Arnold replied, walking to the railing in order to see the shore. The horizon tilted back and forth like it had slipped loose, the lighthouse still reaching for them. He turned back, gesturing to the wheelhouse. “Go see if that arse needs help,” he said. “Don’t mention this. Get me an ETA.”

“ETA?” said Derek, confused. Arnold realised he couldn’t remember what it stood for, only what it meant.

“How long till we get to harbour.”

Derek still looked unsure.

“Now!” barked Arnold.

The kid scuttled away, the door of the wheelhouse flapping open and shut behind him. Arnold stared at the catch that had dropped from their net, thinking again how much it looked like a long-dead thing. Then the boat dropped into another valley and, as if to prove him wrong, the object slid slowly towards him, ploughing through the quiet fish and thumping into his feet. The smell of it rose to greet him—so much worse than the fish, than the sea—and he gagged, staggering back.

“Shit,” he said, clamping a salt-scented hand to his mouth.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had a dead man on his boat. Back in ’87, Teddy Fairbourne had keeled over from a heart attack on a tunny trip in the Atlantic, gone before he hit the deck. It was bad luck to keep the deceased on board, of course, and Arnold’s first thought was to grab the thing and hurl it back into the water—along with the fish they’d caught, because it wouldn’t be right for anyone to eat them now after the company they’d kept in the net.

Not my problem, he thought. Let somebody else deal with it.

Or let the fish deal with it. Because given time, they’d eat the whole damn thing.

But he couldn’t shake the notion of it being somebody he knew, wrapped tight in plastic and left to the mercy of the sea. It was somebody’s child, somebody’s grandchild. The sea would erase them, it would leave nothing behind. Nobody deserved to be forgotten like that.

Bad luck to have the dead on board, worse luck to abandon them to the sea.

Arnold ran to the chest that sat at the back of the wheelhouse, removing a length of rope and securing one end to the boom. When he tied the other around the neck of the long dead thing he felt the give of its flesh, as soft as soup in places. This time he couldn’t help himself, spewing the last of his lunch across the boards.

He wiped his face as he stood, gargling acid. Past the stern, darkness rode on the ocean like death, hunting its missing trophy. Every few seconds the beam of the lighthouse picked out the frothing ridges of the angry waves, the spectres of the gulls against the clouds. The long dead thing slid back and forth on the deck as if looking for a way to return itself to the water.

Shuddering again, Arnold made his way to the wheelhouse, closing the door firmly behind him.

They moored the boat midway down the harbour, navigating the swell and the shallow channels of high water springs. The storm had cleared the jetty, the dirt road beyond lost beneath six inches of water from the swollen tide. Arnold hopped onto the pontoon and tied the ropes. The boat bumped and ground against the platform like a child that wanted to be lifted from the water. Arnold didn’t blame it. The relief he felt at being on land was almost euphoric. It made the dark sky bright.

He offered a hand to Derek as the kid jumped down beside him. Patrick was at the back of the boat, crouched beside the corpse, but only for a handful of seconds before he, too, stepped onto the jetty. He straightened the hood of his jacket against the driving rain, then ran a hand through his beard.

“Body,” he said, as if there was any doubt. “Bad one.”

“What do we do?” asked Derek. “We’ve got to let the police know, right?”

Arnold met Pat’s eye, saw the look there and understood it. Back in the day, Arnold had been a fisherman through and through, Pat too. But life being what it was, they didn’t just use the Liberty to chase the catch now. More often than not they sailed East to meet the boats that crossed from Holland, returning with a cargo of crates and packages instead of cod and pollock.

Sometimes returning with people.

“Right?” said Derek. He’d taken off his hat and was kneading it in his hands. He was in his early twenties, but right now he looked half that.

Pat walked up to him, a big hand on the boy’s shoulder. He leaned in close, closer than he needed to. Arnold couldn’t hear what he whispered in the kid’s ear, but he could see it register in the furrowed lines of Derek’s forehead, in the ways his eyes widened, his mouth twitched. By the time Pat stood back, the kid looked like a kitten that had been fished from the water.

Pat opened his wallet and pulled out a wad of sodden cash, passing it to the boy.

“Go on now,” said Pat, clapping his hands together.

Derek bolted with his money, his shoes squeaking on the wet wood. He crossed the bridge and splashed onto the road, the sound of his footsteps sloshing into the night. Arnold allowed himself to breathe deeply, because for a minute there—and he wasn’t sure why, seeing that the body had nothing to do with them—he’d imagined Pat dunking Derek into the hungry water and not letting him up.

“No police, then,” said Arnold.

Pat grunted.

“Where should we leave him?” said Arnold.

They could throw the body overboard right here. Somebody would find it come the morning further up the channel, mired in mud and seaweed far from where they’d moored. But Pat turned his head north, jutting out his chin towards the marshes that edged the harbour. They’d been flattened by the night, the darkness inscrutable other than the interminable searching beam from the lighthouse.

“Yeah?” said Arnold.

“Yeah.”

He told himself it was just another cargo, just another shipment of whatever they sometimes collected from the Dutch sailors. It was the only way he could take the body by its legs, the only way he could dig his fingers into the meat of it and haul it from the deck of the boat. It wasn’t alive. It had never been alive. And that was easy enough to believe as they hefted the dead weight of it over the bridge and onto the sodden road—as long as he breathed through his mouth, that was.

But when they passed the deserted boat houses and stepped onto the marsh, the lighthouse found them. Every time its glow touched the body Arnold saw a glimpse of flesh through the torn plastic, a strand of hair, and at one point a flash of teeth that took every last scrap of strength from his fingers.

The body slipped, landing wetly on the marshy ground. Unbalanced by the sudden weight, Pat tumbled back, sprawling in the mud.

“Fuck’s sake,” he growled.

“Sorry,” said Arnold, grappling at the legs again.

“Leave it,” said Pat. “Leave it, Arn, let’s go.”

Arnold didn’t have to be told twice. He beetled through the dark, his boots catching on the uneven ground, sinking into the mud as if he, too, was a dead man, ready to be buried here. He turned back when he reached the road, expecting to see Pat right behind him. But the other man was a shadow in the distant dark, crouching beside the body. He jerked his arm back, as if pulling something, then stood up and lumbered over.

Arnold knew better than to ask what he’d been doing.

“All good?” he asked.

Pat nodded again, fishing a packet of cigarettes from inside his jacket. A peal of thunder shook the sky over the North Sea, the rain driving harder than ever, hammering patterns into the shifting water of the harbour. He was grateful to it, because it washed the memory of the body from his clothes and his hands. The air was full of the stench of the sea, salt and brine and iron, but it was familiar, and it was welcome. It was the smell of home.

Pat lit his cigarette, gave Arnold a shallow nod, and walked away. His cigarette glowed fierce, then vanished into the night. Arnold turned to the marsh, the body invisible. He wondered again if they should have just left it to the sea. The water had claimed it, after all, and it could turn angry at the thought of being robbed.

But that same thought returned, that it was no way for somebody to be forgotten.

He tipped his hat to the long-dead thing, wiped the rain from his eyes, and set off.

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday

“You in the right place, pal?”

It was a good question, and DI Harrison Baird had no idea what the answer was. He stood inside the lobby of one of the ugliest buildings in Aberdeen. It was mobbed, at least thirty people waiting to be acknowledged by the dead-eyed staff behind the counters. A legion of kids ran riot between the benched seating, one of them letting off gunpowder caps that popped like fireworks. The churn of voices formed a wave of garbled sound that made his head hurt.

And that wasn’t the only thing that hurt. He could barely put pressure on his right leg, the ankle twisted and swollen. He had a cane, but he’d left it in the car in a somewhat pathetic attempt to show that he didn’t really need it.

Not that he could hide his injuries. His face looked like a kebab that had been run over by a tractor.

The woman behind the desk eyeballed it for a moment over her half-moon glasses, then she pointed a manicured finger towards the mob of people.

“Council matters are dealt with over there,” she said. “And if you’re after the polis, son, then you need to make an appointment.”

Baird pulled his warrant card from his pocket and opened it up. The woman took a long time to study it, switching her attention back and forth from the photo to his face.

“That you?” she asked.

“Aye, of course it’s me,” he said.

“You look like that guy’s uglier brother,” she said, looking at the photo. “What happened to you? Stung by a hive of bees? You’ve got a peanut allergy and you just ate a deep-fried Snickers?”

“Long story,” he said, sliding the card back into his pocket. “That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for DCI McLean. This the right place?”

“For now,” said the woman, leaning back in her chair. “No idea who’s moving where since they closed all the stations. McLean’s here, I’ll let him know you’re coming, Detective.”

“Cheers,” said Baird.

The woman buzzed him through.

“Take the corridor all the way doon, then hang a left. You’ll be able to hear him from there.”

Baird limped through the door, the pain in his ankle stretching all the way up his leg and into his back. You’re an idiot, Harrison, he told himself, because he could have brought the cane with him and left it outside McLean’s office. He shuffled past a dozen open doors, nodding to the detectives and the constables he recognised, feeling a little more at home amongst the dull chatter and the endless ring of telephones. Police Scotland had recently made the decision to close most of the city’s stations and dump everyone into a temporary hub in a council building, which was going just about as well as anyone could have predicted.

But a polis station was a polis station, wherever it was. You couldn’t mistake it for anything else.

He reached the junction after what felt like a ten-mile hike, turning left. The woman at reception had been right, because from here he could make out a harsh barking sound that could only come from one man. It was emanating from a door up ahead, and even as Baird approached it a uniformed constable came darting out, her hands over her head. She was followed by a stapler that hit the opposite wall, scattering its ammunition over the threadbare carpet.

“And use that on your mouth, too, before you come at me with any more bullshit!”

The constable scuttled up to Baird, her cheeks roaring. He recognised her as PC Murphy, one of the officers who’d been on last night’s raid.

Last night’s botched raid, he corrected himself.

“You alright?” he asked her.

“Aye,” she said, glancing back as if to make sure the DCI wasn’t coming after her. “All things considered, he’s in a good mood. You in with him now, sir?”

Baird nodded.

“Good luck.”

She jogged off and he walked to the door, crouching painfully to collect the stapler on his way. He hovered just outside McLean’s office, watching the DCI hammer something into his computer. He was a small man, his feet off the floor when he sat at his desk like a toddler at the dinner table. But there was something about him that made him fill any room he entered.

Baird cleared his throat before speaking.

“This yours, sir?”

DCI McLean finished typing and looked up. His hamster-like cheeks were flushed, the top of his balding head coated with a sheen of sweat. He looked at Baird, then at the stapler.

“Aye, Harrison, but you can have it,” he said. “You know what I want you to do with it?”

“I’m guessing you want me to insert it somewhere, sir,” said Baird, entering the office like a zookeeper entering a lion’s cage.

“Good guess,” said McLean. “Close the door, sit doon.”

Baird would have preferred to leave the door open in case he needed to make a quick getaway, but he reluctantly closed it. He took the only chair opposite McLean’s desk, wincing as the tendons in his ankle burned. It was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever had the displeasure of sitting in, a broken spring jutting into the meat of his backside. He started to push himself up, but McLean shook his head.

“Uh-uh,” said the DCI, a smile parting the mottled flesh of his face. “You’ll sit on the chair of shame and take your punishment, Harrison. Christ, man, have you seen yourself this morning?”

Baird nodded, trying to adjust his position and only making it worse.

“You look like an elephant’s bawbag after it’s been kicked in the bawbag by another elephant in an elephant bawbag kicking competition.”

“What, sir?”

“You went to the hospital?”

“Aye,” said Baird, a lie. “They said it’s decorative, not structural. And the ankle’s no broken.”

“Right,” said McLean, one eyebrow arcing upwards as if it wanted to replace his receding hair. “How old are you, Harrison?”

“Thirty-six, sir,” Baird replied. “What’s that⁠—”

“Do you no think you’re a wee bit old for all this Wee Willie Winkie shite?”

“The, uh, what, sir?”

“Running around in the middle of the night, knocking on doors, causing untold mayhem in my city.”

“It’s the job, sir,” he said.

“Is it?” said McLean, wearing an expression of faux shock. “Well shit on me from a great height, Harrison, why—in my thirty-two years on the job—has nobody ever told me that? Here’s me thinking we had to do the legwork, that we had to study the minutiae of a case before making an informed decision, then follow time-tested techniques to find and arrest a suspect. If I’d known we could just go after them with a sledgehammer and throw them out the window I’d have been a happy man!”

“I didn’t…” started Baird, studying his fingers. “It wasnae a sledgehammer, sir. No a proper one.”

The truth was, it had been a sledgehammer—although the handle had been cut down. Baird had led the raid on a building up near Blackdog, right on the beach. They’d been watching it for a while as part of an investigation into a small group of criminals who had been smuggling drugs, guns and people across the North Sea. The operation had been set in motion weeks ago, but it had been brought forward when one of the informants they’d been using on the case told them the gang were onto them.

“It was last night or never, sir,” said Baird. “Grunning was going to run.”

McLean leaned forward, his chair creaking in protest, his feet scuffing the floor. He put his hands together, watching Baird over the steepled tips like a headmaster listening to a flustered pupil.

“Uh, the door was reinforced, sir,” Baird went on. “We needed the hammer. To open it.”

McLean kept on watching.

“And I hung onto it, after we’d breached, because we’d no time to get tactical in and… well, it got hairy, sir. I’m no gonna lie. There were more of them than we’d thought, and they were armed. Uniforms took down three, the fourth gave me a wallop before Murphy got him. Grunning bolted up the stairs and I followed. He was going for a gun. I… improvised.”

McLean continued to say nothing.

“I didnae hit him with the hammer, sir,” said Baird, well aware he was digging himself into a hole. “I threw it. I thought it would distract him. I’m just no a good shot.”

McLean’s eyebrow rose again.

“Or maybe I’m a better shot than I thought. Hammer hit him in the back and he tripped. Tripped over his own feet, I should add. The window was right there. Gravity did the rest.”

McLean seemed to be vibrating in his seat.

“You were on the second floor, Baird,” he said quietly.

“Aye, but he had a soft landing, sir. We were on the beach.”

“He broke both legs.”

Baird sat back, gingerly rubbing his swollen face where Mike Grunning had walloped him. The man was an arsehole, and there wasn’t a single person in Aberdeen who was sorry he was out of the game. But he still knew what McLean was going to say next.

“It’s no the Wild West, Baird,” he said. “You’re no bloody DCI Logan. You cannae just go round duffing up criminals with a sawn-off sledgehammer.”

“I threw it, sir.”

“Aye, you threw it, and now Grunning’s brief is threatening to press assault charges against you and Police Scotland.”

“He literally had a woman locked in his house, sir,” said Baird. “Not to mention the drugs. And the gun.”

“That’s no the point,” said McLean, kicking his feet in the air and striking the desk with a chubby fist. “And you’re no an idiot, Harrison. You know the rules are there for a reason. If we don’t follow them, we’re no better than the bellends we’re chasing.”

Baird opened his mouth to answer, then realised there was nothing he could say.

“I’m sick to bowkin’ of it, Harrison,” said McLean. “So for now, you’re oot.”

“What, sir?” said Baird, leaning forward. “You’re suspending me?”

“No, Harris, I’m banishing you. Brass want you oot the city until the business with Grunning is sorted, so you’re getting transferred south.”

“South?” echoed Baird. “Christ, no Dundee?”

“Further south.”

“Edinburgh?”

McLean pointed towards the desk with a sausage-shaped finger.

“Dumfries, sir? You cannae get any further south than that.”

“Aye you can, Baird. There’s a whole country doon there.”

“England?”

The smile on McLean’s face looked like something from a horror movie.

“Aye, England,” he said. “A spell south of the border will be punishment enough.”

“I dinnae think I deserve that, sir,” said Baird. “I just threw the bloody hammer, I didnae hit⁠—”

“You’re moving to Suffolk,” McLean went on. “But you’re no technically off the case. Local polis there found a body on the beach this morning wrapped up like one of Grunning’s victims. Came in off the sea, they think. We need to work oot if it’s related, and they need your help with it.”

“Seriously, England?” said Baird, his face twisted into a grimace.

“I dinnae ken why you’re so horrified,” McLean went on. “You’re English.”

“You take that back, sir,” said Baird, jabbing a finger at the DCI. “I’m as Scottish as you are.”

“Except you were born in England.”

“Aye, but then I was born again three years later when Da brought us up here.”

“Aye, well that’s another reason we’re sending you,” said McLean, looking a little uncomfortable. “You heard from him recently?”

“Da? No for years. Decades. You know that. I dinnae even know if he’s still alive.”

“He is,” said McLean. “And he’s living in Suffolk, in a care home called Sheltered Oaks. He’s going by a different name. Pickett. We weren’t sure it was him at first.”

“Why were you even looking?” asked Baird. “He’s dead to me, sir, long dead. I couldnae care less where he is.”

“Go see him, Harrison,” said McLean.

“Sir, I⁠—”

“Go see him,” McLean said again, softening. “Whatever he did, he was a good man, once upon a time, and I think he’s in trouble. Head south, kill two birds with one stone. Come back when the waters have calmed.”

Baird pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair, shaking his head. It took him a while to find his balance, his leg weak from sitting down.

“You got a third stone, sir?” he asked. “Just hit me with it now and put me oot my misery, will you?”

“You dinnae get to be so lucky,” said McLean. “Pack your bags, son. Your train’s at noon.”

Read on by clicking here!

WHILE YOU’RE WAITING…

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alex Smith wrote his first book when he was six. It wasn’t particularly good, but it did have some supernatural monsters in it. His latest books, the DCI Robert Kett and DI Harrison Baird thrillers, have monsters in them too, although these monsters are very human, and all the more terrifying for it. In between, he has published fourteen novels for children and teenagers under his full name, Alexander Gordon Smith—including the number one bestselling series Escape From Furnace, which is loved by millions of readers worldwide. He lives in Norwich with his wife and three young daughters.

Find out more at alexsmithbooks.com

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