PROLOGUE
Across the dark fields, Shauna runs. Where stones in the soil pick at her stockinged feet and clods of earth conspire to throw her off balance.
Footfalls thud the ground behind her. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t call out. But she’s already seen the hunger in his eyes, the visceral determination.
The tall firs of Blackwell Wood loom in the distance. It’s her beacon, her chance for safety. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to hide.
She trips, hears the tear of her dress as she clambers back up and glances over her shoulder. The tunnel of light is blinding. She quickens to a sprint, tears streaking her face, lungs burning. Over the low fence and into the wood. Veering off at a side path, breaking through the bracken.
He’s behind her, zigzagging through the undergrowth, his presence signalled by flickers of torchlight bouncing off the tree trunks. But not for long. Shauna knows this wood better than anyone. She grew up near here. Hacked her horse along its bridleways, explored the back paths and gullies with her brother, Tom.
She navigates east towards the river, away from the firs. To the broad-leafed trees with their wide protective branches and dark canopy. Tall, strong. Like Tom. Self-preservation numbing her torn, bleeding feet. Her toe catches a root, her ankle turns. She falls again. Splays her hands to gain purchase, staggers back up. He’s so close now she can smell him: stale sweat, the thick nicotine in the folds of his clothes.
A bramble rips at her cheek as she lunges forward. She needs to make it to the river. There’s a recess there where the bank has eroded beneath an old willow; its overhanging branches providing a curtain of cover to a secret haven. She and Tom used it as a den when they were young. That’s where Tom would go.
She’s crossing the bridge when the beam touches her. She ignores it, scoots down the riverbank. Gnarly roots rip at her palms as she slides into the water, suppressing a gasp. It’s icy cold. Shivers skitter through every fibre of her being.
The light weaves through the trees. Frantically, she stays beneath the beam and moves down the river, searching for the willow. It’s further down than she remembered, around the bend. She almost gives up when she spots it, sinks into the recess behind, pulls the spindly branches across her front. And waits.
The torchlight fades. The air quietens.
She holds her breath, hardly daring to wonder if she’s lost him. Sharp tears prick her eyes.
Seconds turn into minutes. An owl calls to its mate, who responds with a hoot. The wind rustles through the trees. Her shoulders slacken. She pushes her back against the riverbank, desperately trying to stop her teeth chattering. She needs to bide her time. Make sure he’s far enough away before she climbs out and finds the path back to the road. Another shiver, stronger. She clamps her jaw shut.
The arm appears from nowhere.
She didn’t hear him navigate the bank behind her. Didn’t sense his presence nearby, the water smothering the stench of stale nicotine. He reaches through the willow, fingernails snagging at her skin. A hand grabs her hair. Pulling, dragging.
She screams now. Shrill and loud. Arms windmilling, splashing through the water as she struggles for purchase on the riverbed.
Then he’s gone. And the water stills.
Heart pounding her chest, her eyes dart in all directions, checking the area. She’s about to move off when something is flung around her neck. Instinctively, her hands go to it. A thread. No, a wire. Pulling tighter and tighter. She panics, tries to grab at it, but it’s too far embedded. Sinking into the skin. Tightening her throat. Constricting her airway. Her eyes bulge, her tongue fills her mouth.
A bat swoops in front. It’s the last thing she sees before the river blurs and descends into darkness.
CHAPTER 1
Acting Detective Superintendent Helen Lavery squeezed through the bodies to reach the bar, suppressing a chuckle as she watched a rather sheepish DC Steve Spencer step onto the stage in the corner, raise a microphone to his mouth and sing the opening lines to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. Colleagues rushed to the wooden dance floor, pressing themselves into the small area, jigging along to the tune.
A cheer rose from the back of the crowd, followed by a whoop. DC Rosa Dark’s petite frame shimmied as she raised a glass to her colleague, her glittery dress swishing around her hips. It was Rosa’s engagement party and Helen, sidling in late, found the celebrations already in full swing.
She slid onto a bar stool, ordered a large glass of Merlot and rested her elbow on the bar, her chin on her hand. Spencer was tapping his heel now, bobbing to the beat of the music, buoyed up by the bodies singing along at his feet.
‘I didn’t know he had it in him.’
Helen swivelled to face the broad Yorkshire accent and smiled at the bear of a man holding up a half-full pint of Guinness. ‘I don’t think he did,’ she said and laughed. The disco strobe lighting flashed across DS Sean Pemberton’s bald scalp. He looked well, the open-necked navy shirt and fitted beige slacks accentuating his recent weight loss.
‘Perhaps we should introduce a karaoke machine to the team briefing,’ he said.
Helen gave a wry smile. ‘Is Jenny here?’
‘No, Mrs P’s taken a pass.’
‘Ah.’ Helen gave a backward nod of acknowledgement. Looking around, few of her colleagues had partners in tow. Not surprising really. Police had a habit of talking shop, even when they were supposed to be letting their hair down, celebrating.
‘How was the dinner?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ When her mother had suggested a family meal out to celebrate Helen’s eldest son, Matthew, finishing his last GCSE exam, she was pretty sure she’d imagined them spending an evening in a classy restaurant sipping wine rather than the local pizzeria with its bottomless, refillable soft drinks. But it was Matthew’s choice, and everyone seemed to enjoy it in the end. ‘I made the boys’ night when I took them home,’ she said. ‘Let them have a half a lager shandy each.’
Pemberton snorted. ‘Nothing like a bit of under-age drinking.’
A round of applause cut in. Having finished the song, Steve was taking a low bow, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
Helen scanned the room, past the friends and family, the cops dressed up for a night out. Rosa had moved to the entrance and was chatting to a new arrival. Helen watched her throw her head back and laugh, her engagement ring glittering under the lights as she adjusted the scarf at her neck. The bruises were barely visible now, though Rosa still felt the need to cover them.
The young woman caught Helen’s eye and gave an excited wave, excusing herself and rushing over. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it!’ she said.
‘Oh, you know me,’ Helen said. ‘Anything for a party.’
Rosa tittered at the sarcasm in her voice. If only. Helen enjoyed a get-together as much as any of them but usually bailed out before the drunken dancers filled the floor.
‘Tim, you remember the boss,’ Rosa said as her fiancé arrived at her side.
‘Helen,’ Helen corrected.
‘Sure.’ He gave a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes and turned back to the stage. ‘The karaoke’s going down a storm,’ he said.
His coolness wasn’t surprising. Images of his bride-to-be’s bruised and bound frame, teetering on the lip of a roof, flashed into Helen’s mind. Helen wasn’t to know the danger the young detective would face when she ordered Rosa to make a routine visit on their last case. It was a cop facing an unexpected dangerous situation in the course of duty. Even after assessing all the usual risks, it happened sometimes. Still, Tim felt the need to justify the incident by apportioning blame and he clearly wasn’t about to forgive Helen, despite the senior detective saving his fiancée’s life.
‘Auntie Ellen’s leaving,’ he said to Rosa. ‘We need to say goodbye.’
Rosa tore herself away and disappeared into the crowd.
Pemberton’s thick frame moved into her place beside the bar. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ he said to Helen, motioning to a barman.
Helen swirled the wine in her glass. ‘No. I’ll stick with this one for the moment, thanks.’
A roar rippled around the pub. Another karaoke victim was making for the stage.
‘Well, I guess you’re a superintendent now,’ Pemberton said, teasing. ‘You have to watch your Ps and Qs.’
‘Acting superintendent,’ she corrected, her heart sinking at the reminder. ‘It’s only temporary.’ She could hardly refuse Superintendent Jenkins’s request to cover him while he took special leave to care for his sick partner. But a permanent senior rank, with the internal politics, endless stream of meetings, statistics and reports, wasn’t a position she coveted. She’d joined the police to be a murder detective, to keep her feet firmly on the streets, and she resisted anything that threatened a move away from front-line policing.
By the time Pemberton’s drink arrived, the singer had climbed onto the stage and introduced himself. It was Graham, one of their analysts. He belted out the first line of ‘I Will Survive’, beckoning the crowd to join in.
‘Someone’s enjoying himself,’ Pemberton said as Graham strutted across the stage like a rock star.
Helen laughed. ‘Where’s Newton?’ she said, looking for their new DI.
‘Haven’t seen him.’
Strange. He’d joined them a few weeks ago from Leicester and if there was one thing Helen had discovered in their short acquaintance, it was that Newton liked nothing better than to play to an audience. She’d have thought karaoke would be right up his street.
Graham’s voice warbled as he reached the chorus. Laughter rattled around the dance floor as his colleagues sang along.
‘That’s my cue to go outside for a smoke,’ Pemberton said.
‘Think I’ll join you.’
The summer air was cool and fresh outside The Royal Oak, a welcome respite from the stuffiness inside. A faint spicy odour filled the air from the kebab takeaway next door. Pemberton pulled an Embassy from a packet, lit up and took a long drag.
A car passed, closely followed by another. Then silence. The top end of Hampton High Street was surprisingly quiet for this time on a Friday evening. Helen leaned up against the cold brickwork while they discussed their plans for the weekend – Pemberton preparing to decorate his back bedroom; Helen ferrying her children to friends’ houses and cricket matches. Ruminating on how domestic their lives had become, how their respective university party-hearty days were a distant memory. Time passed easily until Graham appeared in the doorway.
‘You’re needed inside,’ he said to Pemberton. ‘Rosa’s organising two groups for a karaoke competition.’ He looked across at Helen. ‘She wants you to judge.’
Graham disappeared into the pub. Pemberton raised his eyes to the rooftops and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I guess I’d better go in and show willing. Are you coming?’
‘I’ll be there in a mo. Give you a couple of minutes to warm up.’
‘I think we both know I’ll need more than a couple of minutes.’
She laughed. Watched him wander into the pub, then took a deep breath and looked out into the street, enjoying the last few moments of the cool night air. A late jogger passed, breaths chugging. A taxi cruised along, its orange For Hire light lit. Her gaze rested on a couple on the other side of the road, sauntering along, her arm tucked into his. They were dressed for a night on the town – him in dark trousers and an open-necked white linen shirt, her in a navy maxi dress that swished around her ankles. The man leaned into the woman and said something into her hair. She nudged him, gave a sideways glance and giggled.
A distant longing tugged at Helen. There was a time when she’d walked these streets with someone by her side. So easy, so comfortable in their togetherness. She watched the couple until they were smudges in the distance, then finished her wine. She was about to go back into the pub when the rev of an engine filled the air. Helen turned on her heel and spotted a black BMW approaching. It slowed beside her, the driver turning to check her out for a split second. A squarish head, hair razored to number one. Dark, familiar eyes. Helen stepped back, her breath catching in her throat.
The car moved on, the moment gone. But Helen knew what she’d seen.