Choked

25

Marina woke up feeling terrible. She could never normally sleep the first night away from home in a strange bed and would find herself waking up every hour at every unfamiliar noise, constantly wondering where she was and why her room had been changed round. And this situation was far from normal. This was extreme.

She had lain there, staring at the wall, the ceiling. Wondering if someone or something was hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack her. Watching the blade of light under the locked door for anyone trying to enter the room. Or even slipping a message underneath. Seeing the faces of her husband, her daughter, every time she closed her eyes.

At some point her body had been too exhausted to stay awake any longer and she had slept. But even then she couldn’t rest. Her dreams were shallow and anxious, her subconscious screaming at her not to relax or give in, and her body had responded, jolting itself awake throughout the night.

And the phone hadn’t rung.

She had picked it up from the bedside table whenever her eyes were open, checking without hope to see whether there was a missed call, as if somehow the noise wouldn’t have woken her up. A text, even. There were no missed calls. No texts.

Sometimes she had curled herself up foetally, given in and cried. Other times she had screamed and kicked, rage surging round her body like electricity, angry words spat from a spittle-flecked mouth. Or she had just lain there, trying not to think about herself or her family, not to feel anything. Willing herself to numbness.

In this way, the night had passed.

She dragged herself out of bed and hauled herself into the bathroom. The light was as harsh and unforgiving as a convention centre. She checked her body, found she was externalising what she felt internally. One side of her displayed bruises and gravel rash from the explosion and was sore to the touch. The face in the mirror belonged to a woman at least ten years older than the previous day’s. Eyes haunted and dark-rimmed.

She splashed water on her face, tried to bring herself back to life. Then decided to have a shower. Before she did that, she went back into the bedroom, fetched the phone, checking for calls. None. She got into the shower, and immediately began to worry whether steam or water would render the phone useless and she would miss the call.

She closed her eyes. Tried not to think of anything. Felt the warm water on her skin. Caressing her, relaxing her. And immediately felt guilty for almost enjoying it.

Out of the shower, she checked the phone again. It still worked, but there had been no call or text. The action of checking, although nothing in itself, was becoming physically wearying.

She walked back into the bedroom, towelling herself off. Her heart sank even further as she looked at the pile of clothes on the floor. She wanted to never see them again, to burn them, forget them. They were dirty, torn from the explosion, sweaty from her exertions. But she had no other clothes, so she had to wear them.

Once she was dressed, her tangled curly hair finger-combed, she sat on the bed and waited. With nothing to do, she flicked on the TV. The news was on, local. Not much happening. A car accident on the A12. Cuts to public services in Braintree. A convicted murderer released on licence had failed to show up at his hostel. Marina, preoccupied, not listening, barely took it in.

And then the phone rang.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She grabbed for it, held it to her ear. Heart pounding.

‘Yes …?’

The voice was singing. ‘This is the day-ay, your life will surely cha-ay-ange … ’ Then laughing. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’

‘Where’s my daughter? Is she safe?’

‘All in good time. Today’s the day! Do what we want, do it properly, the way we want it, and you’ll get your daughter back. Unharmed. What a bargain.’

‘No.’ Marina swallowed down the rage, fear and panic in her voice. Trying to act professionally, she remained calm and reasonable. ‘I want to help you. And I will help you. But before I do that, I want to hear her. I need to hear her. Put her on. Now.’

‘Can’t do that.’

Marina’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice. Her hand was trembling. ‘Then I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you.’

A silence on the phone. ‘Sorry you feel that way.’

‘I do.’ Marina was almost hyperventilating. All the words that had spun through her head during the night came spewing out. ‘I do. You’ve got two choices. Let me speak to her, let me know she’s alive and well, and I’ll do what you want. Otherwise … ’

‘What?’

‘I call the police. Right now. Tell them everything.’

A sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t think so.’ The voice was trying to be calm, but she clearly had it rattled.

‘I do.’ She wished her heart held the conviction her voice spoke with. ‘And so do you. You know you have no choice. So put her on. Please.’ Her voice caught on the final word. She hoped it hadn’t been noticed.

Silence. No … they’ve gone, she thought. I’ll never hear from them again. Josephina’s dead for sure now. And it’s all my fault. I was trying to be clever. It’s all my—

‘Mummy?’

‘Jo? Josie darling, I’m here … ’

‘Mummy! Mummy! There’s … ’ Her voice stopped, replaced by muffled sounds.

‘Josie! Josie! Listen, I’m coming for you, I’m … ’

The first voice was back on. She could hear her daughter’s muffled cries in the background. ‘There. Told you we’ve got her. Told you she’s OK.’

‘What have you done with her? What have you fucking done with her?’ Screaming, not caring who heard.

‘Nothing.’ The voice shouted, struggling to be heard over Marina and her daughter’s screaming. ‘Nothing. She’s well and unharmed. And she’ll stay that way if you do as you’re told.’

Marina tried to regain composure. ‘And if I do that, I get her back and … and that’s that?’

‘That’s that.’

Marina was breathing heavily. Adrenalin was pumping round her system. ‘It had better be. Because if you’re lying, or if you hurt her, if you so much as touch her, I will find you. And I will kill you.’ As she spoke those words, Marina realised she had never in her life believed anything with as much conviction. She could feel her father’s rage within her.

‘Fine. OK. Whatever.’ The voice was struggling to appear to be in control. ‘Here’s your postcode for the sat nav. Get on with it.’

The line went dead. A few seconds later, a text came through.

She left the room.

26

Dee Sloane watched as Michael Sloane lined Jeff Hibbert’s laptop up with the corners of the desk.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go … ’

He typed in a password and sat back. The screen before them changed, the system allowing them entrance. He turned his face up to her, beamed. She smiled back in return. Winced as she did so.

Her face was still sore from where he had hit her. As was her whole body. But good sore. Sexy, tingly sore. She ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. Found a loose tooth. Waggled it. Enjoyed the little charges of pain that shot through her jaw.

He was still looking at her. At first she thought he must be thinking the same thoughts she was. How good it had been yesterday. How he had almost broken her. How she couldn’t wait for him to do it again. Then she caught the look in his eye. She knew that look. Knew what he was thinking. What it meant. Concentrate on what he was doing.

Her first instinct was to play up. A little thrill of defiance ran through her. She smiled, sending back her own message. He usually liked it when she did this. It was all part of the game they played together, how they had fun. But she had caught something else in that look. There was no trace of his assumed identity, kindly, Guardian-reading Stuart Milton.

Don’t fuck me around, the look said. This is serious.

Do what he wants, she thought, or face the consequences later. Where a whole different kind of pain will be involved. She bowed her head submissively. Looked down at the laptop. ‘Well done,’ she said.

The correct response. He nodded. She smiled in return. They could always play their game later.

‘It’s on here,’ he said. ‘Everything we need. Somewhere. I’ve just got to … ’

He began to hit buttons, scroll down menus. She watched over his shoulder. Trying to keep her mind on what he was saying. Interested but not excited. It was important, a matter of life and death, even. But the actual process was boring.

He became engrossed in columns of words and numbers. She looked round. Their living room had become a war room. Dee was used to it by now. Their business often demanded it. And she had always tolerated it, because business was important. It was their lives. She had allowed the expensive furniture to be moved, the table and chairs placed in the centre of the room. But she was always relieved when they went back to their proper places afterwards. When order was restored.

The house slave had been locked in her room. Not allowed to bear witness. There was just the two of them.

And the Golem.

He stood in the corner by the door. Still, silent. His body motionless, his face blank, his eyes hidden by shadow. Like an automaton waiting for a new instruction. Her eyes trailed over him. A very handsome, well-sculpted automaton. Even with the grey skin. In fact the grey skin made him even more interesting.

Michael was engrossed in the laptop. Dee moved away and left him to it. She walked slowly round the room, supposedly without purpose, eventually fetching up next to the Golem. She looked at him closely. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, the fabric pulled tight over his honed torso. She felt that familiar ache, that tingling in her groin. The Golem didn’t look at her, gave no acknowledgement that she was even there. That just intensified the ache.

When she felt this way — which was often — she had to be satisfied. There was nothing sophisticated about it, nothing civilised. It was just a physical craving, an animal lust that needed sating. Like a basic need, food to stave off hunger. Her mind would absent itself, her body would take over and she wouldn’t stop until she had had enough. Usually Michael could satisfy it, but if he wasn’t there, she had to find other methods. Other people.

And a grey-skinned killer would do just fine.

She licked her lips. Reached out a hand. Traced the line of his bicep with her finger. He turned to her as she did so. His eyes looking straight into hers. She felt her heart stepping up in her chest as she smiled in what she hoped was an inviting way. Anticipating what was to come.

She kept stroking, pressing harder.

He kept looking at her.

‘Nice … ’ she said, her finger still moving. ‘Strong … ’

Eyes still locked, she bit her bruised lip hard, enjoying the pain. She worked her teeth round, drew blood. Bit down harder. Felt the taste of hot pennies in her mouth. Hot, wet pennies. She ran her tongue round her teeth, opened her lips, smiled, her red-stained teeth glistening.

He stared at her eyes, her teeth. Then, impassively, looked away.

His response was emotionless, but that made it all the more dismissive. She should have felt shamed, humiliated by it. She did. And that just made the tingling, the ache, stronger.

‘You’re a robot,’ she said, her voice low, slushy with blood, ‘a big human robot.’ She giggled. ‘You’re all power. Scary.’ Her breathing grew faster. ‘Would you make me fear you? If I let you?’ She moved in closer. ‘Would you?’

He said nothing. Her fingers traced down the side of his body, down his hard torso.

‘What if I begged—’

‘Dee.’

She looked up. Michael had stopped work on the laptop and was staring at her. He didn’t look happy. This wasn’t part of the game.

Head down, she crossed the floor, stood beside him.

‘What d’you say?’

‘Sorry.’ Her voice a small, breathy whisper.

He turned back to the laptop. Dee felt she should give it her attention too. She looked at the screen. And in that shiny surface she saw not what she was supposed to see, but her own reflection.

Not her usual reflection, the face she had now, but the old one. The way she once was. It had broken through. She felt her heart sink like a stone lost in a lake. The tingling stopped. Shame took over. She couldn’t keep looking. She couldn’t look away. So horrible.

‘Dee.’

Michael’s voice again. He knew what was happening.

‘Look at me, Dee.’

She tore her eyes away from the screen, looked at him. He placed his hands on her arms. Gripped her tight.

‘It’s not real,’ he said. ‘It’s not you.’

She heard his words but she didn’t believe them. She never did. Not at first.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘It’s not real. It’s not me.’ Her voice dry and dead.

‘You’re Dee Sloane. Who are you?’

‘Dee. Sloane.’

‘Good. Remember that.’

He let go of her. She stood silent, head down. As motionless as the Golem.

‘It’s hidden,’ he said, pointing at the laptop. ‘But it’s here. Only a matter of time. Then we’ll have them.’

She knew she was expected to say something here. ‘Good.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

He went back to working on the laptop.

Dee just stood there, lost in her own world.

27

Tyrell had found sleep difficult to come by. The dogs had barked intermittently all night. He couldn’t shake the image of them tearing apart the little girl in the house, and rose regularly to look out of the window and check they weren’t doing that. There wasn’t a full view of the dogs’ enclosure from his window so he couldn’t be entirely sure, but he thought if the girl had been there he would have heard her. Or he hoped he would. Since dawn broke, he had kept vigil from the window. It was fully light when Jiminy Cricket arrived.

‘Hands off cocks and on with socks, as my mother used to say.’ Jiminy Cricket laughed. Tyrell didn’t join him.

‘I’ve brought you breakfast.’ Jiminy Cricket placed an old, cheap laminate tray down on the table. Tyrell looked at it. A mug of something brown. Some toast and a mound of scrambled egg that had hardened into a mini yellow Ayers Rock on the walk over.

Just like being in prison, Tyrell thought.

‘Eat up,’ Jiminy Cricket said.

Tyrell stayed standing. ‘Where’s the girl?’

‘In the house. She’s fine.’

Tyrell stared at him. Levelly, unblinkingly. The other man’s eyes darted all about, zinged and ricocheted off surfaces like a speeding bullet in a metal bank vault. He finally brought them to rest on the scrambled eggs.

‘Eat up. You’ll need your strength. Big day.’

‘Where’s the girl?’

‘She’s all right.’ Almost shouting, voice coming out of his body like steam erupting from a poorly closed pressure cooker. ‘You … you don’t need to concern yourself with her. She’s fine. Just fine.’

‘What about the dogs?’

‘What about the dogs?’ Tetchy, irritable.

‘You were going to feed her to them.’

He sighed in exasperation. ‘I wasn’t going to feed her to them.’

‘Yes you were. The woman in the kitchen said so. I heard her.’

‘No one’s feeding the girl to the dogs.’

‘I don’t want the little girl fed to the dogs.’

‘She’s not going to be fed to the dogs!’

‘I won’t help you if you do.’

Jiminy Cricket stopped talking then, stared. This time he did make eye contact. Moved up close, face to face. ‘The girl is fine,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice low, controlled. ‘You don’t need to worry about her.’

Tyrell stared.

‘Look, last night I was … angry. But we’re fine now, OK? Right?’

He wanted to be believed, but Tyrell wasn’t sure he was ready to do that yet. He didn’t think letting him know was the best thing to do, though, so he said nothing. His silence was taken for assent.

‘Good. Right. Let’s keep it that way.’ Jiminy Cricket sighed, looked relieved to have headed off Tyrell’s revolt, handled it so well. He smiled, pointed at the eggs.

‘Eat up. Big day.’

‘Why?’

Another sigh, a roll of the eyes, but hidden. Like he thought Tyrell was an idiot but didn’t want him to know it. ‘Like I said. This is the day all your questions are answered. Today’s the day you find out who you are.’

‘I know who I am. You told me. Tyrell.’

‘Yes,’ he said, moving close, putting his arm round Tyrell’s shoulder like a friend or an overfamiliar used-car salesman. ‘That’s right. Tyrell. But that’s just a name. Today you get your identity. Your legacy. Who you are, who you were, and most importantly, who you forever shall be.’

Tyrell said nothing. He was still thinking of the girl and the dogs.

‘That’s the spirit.’ The other man laughed, squeezed Tyrell’s shoulder, put on a cockney accent. ‘Stick with me, mate, and this time next year we’ll be millionaires.’ He looked at his watch, laughed. ‘This time tomorrow, even.’

Tyrell didn’t know whether he wanted to go along with it. He wished he had gone straight to the hostel when he got out, not got into the car. He wished …

He wished he were back inside.

His friend took his arm away. Made for the door, pointed to the table. ‘Eat your eggs.’ And was gone. Locking the door behind him.

Tyrell looked at the plate of food, the rapidly cooling tea. He sat down at the table. Picked up the fork. He didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice.

He ate. It tasted exactly as it looked.

28

Marina was just about to set foot in the hotel lobby when she realised something was wrong.

There were two uniformed police officers at the reception desk.

Usually she wouldn’t have given that a second thought. After all, she was on the payroll as a police psychologist. But where she would once have seen officers as no threat, as allies even, she could no longer afford to think that way. Not when her daughter’s life was at stake.

They’re here for me, she thought. They know I’m here and they’ve come for me. It was the phone call last night, she thought, or my credit card when I checked in. They’ve traced me.

Her heart began to pound heavily. She had to get out. Get past them and into the car. Drive away. Do what was required of her and get her daughter back. Not get hauled in by the police.

Another thought struck her. They’re not here for me. They’re here about something completely unconnected. There’s no way they could have found me yet. In that case, her reasoning continued, just keep going. Right past them. To the car and away.

But something stopped her from doing that. Paranoia. A sixth sense. A desire to not take unnecessary risks. Something like that.

Instead, she ducked back behind the corner, looking out to check they hadn’t seen her. They hadn’t. Good. She turned round, walked back the way she had come, glancing over her shoulder. She wished she hadn’t. The receptionist was gesturing towards her, or at least towards the corridor she was in.

Heart rate increasing, she moved quickly towards the lift, punched the button. The lift was still there from her coming down in it. The doors opened. Slowly. Marina heard footsteps coming towards her.

She jumped inside, pressed the buttons for the first and top floors. The footsteps got louder, voices with them. The doors took millennia to close.

But eventually they did.

She was alone. The lift made its way slowly to the first floor. She jumped out, pressing the button to close the doors as she did so. The lift continued its ascent to the top floor.

Marina looked up and down the corridor. The maids’ mobile cleaning unit was standing further along the hall, two maids working in unison, entering vacated rooms, removing bedding and towels.

She looked the other way. The stairs were through a set of heavy double doors on the left. She ran to them, opened them. Listened. Heard footsteps coming up. Voices.

The two officers.

An image of Josephina formed unbidden in her mind. Of Phil lying unconscious. She pushed them aside, concentrating. Her heart was hammering now, eyes darting everywhere. She closed the door to the stairs, went back into the corridor. Looked round.

No one about but the maids. She walked towards the cleaning unit.

Behind her, the door to the stairs opened.

Marina ran, not looking back.

Past the maids’ trolley, eyes frantic left and right, desperate to find somewhere to duck into.

The cleaning supplies cupboard and service room was open. Without stopping to think, she jumped inside, pulled the door closed behind her.

Still holding the handle, she turned.

To find a cleaner staring at her.

The cleaner was young, foreign. Her initial amazement was quickly giving way to fear. She opened her mouth. To scream, speak, Marina didn’t know. She couldn’t take the chance and find out.

‘Sorry,’ said Marina in as loud a whisper as she dared. ‘My husband.’ She pointed to the door.

The cleaner kept staring.

‘He’s … I’m not supposed to be here.’

The cleaner still seemed unconvinced. Maybe she doesn’t speak English, thought Marina. Maybe she just doesn’t understand me. Here was a woman with wild hair and ripped, soiled clothing jumping into her room and closing the door. Holding her captive. Marina didn’t blame her for being scared.

She could hear voices on the other side of the door, getting louder.

She turned back to the cleaner, who had heard them too. Her mouth was opening, making ready to shout.

Marina desperately thought of something that would convince her.

‘My husband, he … ’ She took her hand off the handle, mimed punching herself in the face. Then she gestured to the door and the increasingly loud voices.

The cleaner nodded, understanding.

Marina thought she saw some spark of recognition in the young woman’s eyes. Some shared commonality of experience. She felt a shudder of guilt at that, but smiled.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

The cleaner said nothing. Gave a small smile.

The footsteps, the voices receded.

Marina slowly turned the handle, risked a quick glance down the hall.

With another nod of thanks to the cleaner, she left the room, heading for the stairs.

She pulled open the double doors, taking the steps two at a time until she almost tripped and lost her footing. She took control of herself, paused momentarily. Continued the rest of the way as fast as she could.

She reached the ground floor. Panting for breath, she opened the double doors, looked down the corridor.

No one about.

She stepped into the hallway, then, taking a deep breath, walked towards the main doors.

As she reached the receptionist’s desk, she kept her face averted. The receptionist had her head down. Marina was aware of her glancing up as she walked past.

‘Oh.’ Surprise in the receptionist’s voice. ‘Oh. The police … there’s someone here to see you.’

Marina kept walking.

‘Excuse me … ’

‘Just going to the car,’ Marina shouted over her shoulder. ‘Back in a mo.’

The doors opened. Marina was out into the fresh air.

She heard the receptionist calling behind her. Knew the girl would be deciding what to do next. Come out and chase her; go and find the police.

She couldn’t risk either of those things happening.

She ran across the car park, found her car. Got in quickly, locked the doors. She checked that the phone was in her bag, started the car. She could enter the postcode into the sat nav when she was away from the hotel. She drove off.

As she passed the hotel entrance, the two uniforms were standing there, the receptionist with them. One of them, the male, moved into the path of her car, waving his arms about, trying to flag her down, stop her.

Marina speeded up.

He jumped out of the way.

She made for the exit and away.

She couldn’t think about them, about what she had just done.

She just had to focus on where she was headed.

29

‘Feels like we’re paying our last respects in a funeral parlour,’ said DS Jessica James. ‘Should be playing organ music.’

The body lay straight on the bed, arms by its sides, legs together, head back, eyes closed. She leaned over it, scrutinising. Particularly the neck and the head. She straightened up, turned to DC Deepak Shah who was next to her. ‘What d’you think? Are you fooled?’

He shook his head. ‘As much as you are, ma’am.’

She nodded.‘If he was standing upright, his head would stay on his neck about as well as a bowling ball on a broomstick.’

The investigation was into its second day but hadn’t made much progress. No one had reported seeing a child matching Josephina’s description, either on her own or with anyone else. But they were still pursuing it, the uniforms out canvassing and the team searching the area.

With nothing else happening, Jessie had paid another call to Jeff Hibbert intending to ask him some more questions, and had received no answer. Thinking that it was unlikely he’d be out, she had gone round the back of the house and found the lock on the door frame hanging off, the frame splintered, the back door itself open.

She ran inside, calling his name with no response. Fearing the worst, she made her way upstairs. And that was how she found him. Laid out on the bed. Peaceful.

She wasn’t fooled for a second.

And neither were the Forensic Scene Investigators. She had called it in straight away, keeping her hands off any surfaces, then carefully retracing the path she had taken into the house in reverse, stepping outside so as not to contaminate the scene further.

The pathologist and FSIs were finishing up their preliminary investigation and had allowed Jessie and Deepak in. They stood in the dull room, the drawn curtains lending it an ever deeper atmosphere of depression.

Her own head was feeling a little like a bowling ball on a broomstick. Caning it two school nights in a row. Not good, but she couldn’t help it. Just the one with a mate. That had been all. Or all she had intended. But it had spiralled and there hadn’t been a happy reception when she had finally got home. She sighed, rubbed her eyes, pushed it all into a small corner of her mind. She could deal with that later. She had more pressing matters to attend to.

‘What a horrible place to live in,’ Deepak said, looking round.

‘And die in,’ said Jessie, turning away from the body and seeing what the rest of the room contained. ‘Which he was doing. Lung cancer, I reckon.’ She pointed to the oxygen cylinder at the side of the bed. ‘He looked rough when I came to see him yesterday. Thought I’d better question him again as quickly as possible.’

Deepak frowned. ‘Why?’

She told him about Stuart Milton and the address he had given. ‘I got the feeling Hibbert knew more than he was letting on.’ She turned back, looked at the bed.‘We’ll never know now.’

Deepak nodded towards the FSIs. ‘Unless they can tell us anything.’

‘True.’

Jessie examined the room once more and noticed a couple of circular marks in the dust on the sideboard. She looked down at the floor. Two ugly figurines lay there, one with its head broken off. Knocked off in the fight, she thought. She knelt down beside them. Glanced under the bed. Saw something …

She got right down, nose almost to the carpet. From her position she could smell how unclean the fibres were. How infrequently it had been cleaned.

‘Stinks down here … ’

‘I doubt housekeeping was top of his priorities, ma’am,’ said Deepak, watching her.

Jessie took out her phone, switched on the flashlight, ran it over the carpet. She ignored the debris and accumulated dust as best she could, concentrated.

‘Yes … ’

She sat up. Felt the room lurch a little as she did so. Last night’s alcohol making its presence felt again. Deepak watched her.

She stood up. ‘There was something under there.’ She pointed. ‘There’s a rectangular mark where something’s been taken.’

Deepak got down on the floor.

‘What d’you think?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Laptop? Old family bible?’

Jessie nodded. ‘It looks like — and I don’t think we’re jumping to conclusions here — someone broke in, tried to take his laptop, there was a struggle … ’ she pointed to the broken figurine, ‘and poor old Mr Hibbert got his neck broken.’

‘Then the burglar rearranged the body, hoping to make us think he’d gone peacefully,’ finished Deepak.

‘Exactly.’ She nodded. Looked at the body again. ‘Or … ’

Deepak waited.

‘This was done deliberately, the laying-out of the body. No burglar does that. It’s almost like he’s been left … ’

‘At peace,’ finished Deepak.

‘Right. So … why? Is this all coincidence? Stuart Milton, the fire yesterday, the missing girl, or just some opportunist targeting the house of a dying man?’

‘We don’t believe in coincidences, ma’am.’

‘No, Deepak, we don’t. But what—’ Before she could go further, Jessie’s phone rang. She checked the display before answering. Mickey Philips. She felt something flutter inside her as she put the phone to her ear. Probably last night’s alcohol again.

‘Good morning, DS James.’

‘Good morning, Mickey. And don’t be so formal. Call me Jessie.’

There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Jessie … James?’

‘Yeah. Wondered when you’d make that connection. But don’t bother, I’ve heard all the jokes. And before you say it, Suffolk Police are not a cowboy outfit.’

He laughed. She liked the sound of it. Deepak turned away.

‘We’re at the house of a murder victim,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Just wondering whether it ties in with yesterday’s events.’

‘And does it?’

‘We don’t know yet.’ She told him of the connection.

‘Never ignore a coincidence,’ said Mickey. ‘As my boss always says.’

‘Your boss and I think the same. How is he?’

‘Still under sedation. But they’re hopeful, apparently.’

‘Fingers crossed, then.’

‘Yeah, fingers crossed. Got an update for you.’ He told her about Marina.

‘Well,’ said Jessie after he’d finished, ‘I think we can rule her out of Mr Hibbert’s murder.’

Mickey didn’t laugh. Jessie wasn’t sure if she had meant it as a joke.

‘OK. This is what we’re doing this end,’ she said. ‘We’re looking into Hibbert’s death. We’re going to look for the guy who called himself Stuart Milton, see if we can find him and also run the name, see what we get. We’ve got a team out searching for the missing girl and we’re trying to trace that car that was parked outside the cottage when it went up. We’re going house to house, door to door, giving it the full Hollywood.’

‘Great. I’ll keep looking for Marina, then.’

‘Stay in touch.’

She hung up. Deepak was staring at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, ma’am.’

She knew what he was thinking. He had his disapproving face on again. She ignored it. She had enjoyed hearing Mickey’s voice. He was a nice guy. But she shunted it off into a corner of her mind once more. She had work to do.

A murderer to find.

30

The Golem had moved rooms. He was still in the house and waiting for instructions, but claiming the time as his own.

It was something he had to do every day. Spend time alone to meditate. Recharge. Rediscover his past self, make peace with it and in doing so reveal his forward path. His employers all knew he did this. They accepted, understood and allowed him time, even building it into their schedules. He delivered a very specific service. He had to do it in his own way.

But there was another reason for wanting to be alone. He wanted to get away from the Sloanes. Or Dee Sloane in particular. He thought again of her bloodied teeth, her lithe body. Her need to be dominated, to be broken, and her desire for him to be the one to do it. It was something he could do easily. And enjoy it.

But he was working.

He shut the door behind him. It closed with a satisfyingly heavy click, shutting him off. He stood in the centre of the room. Slowed his breathing down. Took in his surroundings.

The room was virtually bare. A spare room that hadn’t been filled with anything. Considering their wealth, the Sloanes didn’t seem to have accumulated much debris or clutter in their lives. The Golem interpreted that as them living in the present, not allowing the past to weigh them down. He approved of that.

He closed the blind, blocking out the day, removed his T-shirt and boots, sat down on the floor, straight-backed, and crossed his legs. He slowly inhaled through his nostrils, filtering out the smells around him, concentrating on only pure air. He brought up the image of the red spot like he had been taught. Focused on it, stared at it in his mind’s eye. The day died away around him. He heard only the symphony playing within himself.

He felt his heart valves open, the unclean blood being taken in, the locks and chambers filling, emptying, filtering, the good, purified blood punching its way round his system, cleansing him, renewing him, healing him.

When he had counted enough heartbeats, when he was sure enough blood had been circulated, he allowed the ritual to begin.

How many since last time?

Two.

Lives ended, souls freed?

As you say. It is for others to allocate specific names for things.

Names?

No.

Did they suffer?

No. It was over as quickly as possible. I am not a sadist.

Did they have families?

I do not know.

Will they be missed?

I do not believe so. I do not wish to believe so.

Are you ready to remove them from your heart and let them go?

I am.

Silence.

They are gone. You are cleansed, you are renewed, you are healed. You are once more at peace.

Thank you.

He stayed where he was, his consciousness focused only within himself. He saw his mother’s face and gave an involuntary gasp. His mother’s screaming face.

His other life. When he had a name. Before he was just the Golem.

He was back in the room as it shook from falling bombs. He heard more screams, more empty, hopeless prayers. His childhood, a time when hope of independence and self-determination for Bosniaks like his family soon turned into hate. When Milosevic’s Bosnian Serb army attacked them, turning neighbours to foes. Legitimising hatred. When being born in Srebenica was the worst thing that could have happened.

Ethnic cleansing. A simple, clean phrase that hid a horrific truth. Rape. Torture. Murder. It was what the Serbs and the Yugoslav People’s Army had done to his family. The ones they hadn’t killed were herded into camps. The ones who survived the camps were damaged beyond belief.

Like him.

His mother, his sisters had been raped and mutilated before they died. His father murdered. And he felt that he had died along with them. He no longer felt human; he burned with a righteous anger and a hunger for revenge.

The war had ended in 1995. But it would never end for him. He rebuilt himself. Turned himself into a killing machine. Kept focused on tracking down the Serbs responsible for his family’s death. He popped pills, took vitamin supplements. Kept himself clean, fit. And as his body became bigger and harder, it also changed colour. He turned grey.

At first he hated it, couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. But gradually he came to accept it. He felt dead inside, and grey was the right colour for a dead man. The nickname soon followed. Golem. Made of clay, the mythical saviour of the Warsaw ghetto. He liked that. Kept it.

Eventually he was primed and ready to kill. And he did so. He couldn’t track down those responsible for his family’s death, so he attacked anyone who had been in the war on the side of the Serbs. It was messy, violent. And it didn’t bring him the peace he thought it would.

But it did bring him to the attention of people who could use his services. Drug barons. People-traffickers. Gangsters. At first he wanted nothing to do with them, but eventually he gave in. He was a killing machine with no one to kill. Why not get paid for it?

He didn’t enjoy it, though. He didn’t know if his victims deserved it or not. And it plagued him. So he sought help, and found it in meditation. And now he had reached a still point. A place within where he could do his job and absolve himself of guilt afterwards. A way for a dead man to live with himself.

There was a sound behind him. The door opened, closed again.

His mind tunnelled quickly back from the past, barrelled down towards the present. Refocused on the red spot … then out. Back in the world once more.

‘Hello.’

He turned, his vision jarred by his enforced return to the present, and saw who it was. Dee Sloane, standing against the door. Unbuttoning her blouse.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She undid another button. Her eyes travelled down his body, roamed over his naked chest. ‘You’ve started without me.’ She moved nearer to him. Slowly, each spike heel hitting the floor with a deliberate crack, like a bolt from a predator’s crossbow hitting the bullseye.

He remained where he was. Tried not to respond to her.

‘I know what you wanted,’ she said. ‘I could see it in your eyes. You tried to hide it, but I always know when someone wants me.’

Her blouse fell to the floor beside him. He didn’t move his head upwards.

‘You do want me. I know you do.’

He stared ahead, aware of her hands clenching.

‘I meant what I said. I want you to dominate me. I want you to break me.’ The word hissed, whispered.

Her bra dropped to the floor beside her blouse. He still didn’t look up.

‘Don’t worry. Michael’s playing with the laptop. He’ll be ages. And he won’t mind. Anyway … ’ a finger traced its way along his naked shoulder, ‘you’re bigger than he is.’ The pressure increased. ‘Much bigger … ’

Her nails dug into his skin.

Her voice was down by his ear now, making the skin on his neck tingle. ‘I love not knowing what you’ll do to me next … the fear … it’s such a turn-on … ’

He grabbed her hand. Hard. She gasped. He turned his head upwards, locked eyes with her.

‘Leave.’

Confusion crossed her gaze. She blinked it away. Found a smile.

‘I said leave.’ His voice low and steady.

‘It’s OK. Michael is—’

‘Leave.’ A final command.

She dropped eye contact. Bent down, picked up her discarded clothes. He heard her heels clacking, the door opening and closing. Then silence once more.

He sighed. Looked down at his hands.

They were shaking.

31

The car bounced down the rutted track. Marina felt herself being thrown from side to side as she drove.

She pulled up at the bottom of the hill. The road stopped, turned into sand dunes. She switched off the engine, got out. It was a seaside scene, but even in the sun it looked bleak. Ancient beach huts, weathered, peeling and rotting, stood in front of the scrappy, sparsely sprouting dunes. The sand looked close-pressed, muddied. Damp and wet. She could imagine it sucking down unwary travellers. Dead and dying boats lay chained and marooned on the shore. Beyond, the river sluiced out to the North Sea.

She turned to her left, looked behind her. She knew there was a walled garden somewhere near with a rusting caravan behind it. She turned her head to the right. The farmhouse was derelict now, left for the elements to reclaim. It didn’t matter if it fell down; Marina would carry its ghosts within her for the rest of her life.

‘You bastard,’ she said aloud, ‘you fucking bastard … ’ Her voice was borne away on the wind.

It was here that she had almost died. It was here that she had been born.

Or reborn.

Three years ago a homicidal maniac had kidnapped her and hidden her in a basement underneath the caravan in the field, wanting her unborn baby, the child who would grow up to be Josephina. Phil, leading the hunt for the killer, had eventually traced him to this spot and come to rescue her. He had joined her in the cellar’s labyrinthine tunnels, trying to capture the madman. But ultimately it was Marina who had stopped his murderous spree and protected their unborn child. It was Marina who had killed him.

And that was when she had been reborn.

After that, she had known who she was. How much she would stand. The lengths she would go to to protect her own. She had thought the voice on the phone didn’t know that. Now, she had to concede, perhaps they did.

Then she heard it.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She grabbed the phone from her bag, put it to her ear.

‘You arrived?’ said the voice. ‘No trouble getting here?’

‘You bastard,’ she said.

Silence. Then: ‘What d’you mean?’ The tone was harsh but inquisitive.

‘You know what I mean. Bringing me here.’

Another silence. ‘I thought you would remember this place.’

‘Oh, you’re damn right I do.’

The voice sounded confused but tried to appear to be in control, without much success. ‘I’m … surprised it means that much to you.’

Anger was rising within Marina. ‘Funny fucker.’ Spat out.

‘You’re in Wrabness.’

‘I know I’m in Wrabness.’

‘And you’ve been here before.’

‘Well done, Einstein. It was all over the papers.’

Another silence. Marina began to think the voice had been cut off. Eventually it replied.

‘Just … You’ll be getting an email in a moment. It’ll tell you what to do next.’

‘So that’s all this is for, is it? A really unpleasant trip down memory lane?’

‘Look … ’

‘No, you look.’ The anger was welling in Marina, threatening to burst. ‘You blow up my family, kidnap my daughter and then bring me out here. I’ve dealt with some sick bastards in my time, but you’re … ’ She could no longer find the words.

‘Now listen.’ The voice was getting angry too. Marina listened. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Yes, you’ve been here before. That’s why you were chosen. That’s why we wanted you. But … ’ A sigh. ‘Read the email.’

The line went dead.

Marina held the phone in her shaking fist. Stared at it. She looked back at the crumbling farmhouse. Over to the broken wall, the rusting caravan. Then back to the river, the sand. Bleak, desolate. She shivered. Phil wouldn’t be coming to save her this time.

She felt something harden with her. No more, she thought. No more. She had already discovered what she would do to protect her family once already on this spot. The revisit just confirmed it. Whoever was on the other end of the phone, it was time to stand up to them.

The phone pinged. She opened the email, began to read.

And, slowly, began to understand.

32

‘Jeff? Dead? Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. He was a very sick man.’

‘He was, Mrs Hibbert.’

‘Call me Helen. I’ve never liked being called Mrs Hibbert. Makes me sound like his mother.’ She took a deep breath, a mouthful of vodka and tonic. ‘And God, that’s one thing I never wanted to be like.’ Helen Hibbert shuddered at the thought.

Jessie James couldn’t see this woman as anyone’s mother. She would hate the competition for attention. In the car on the way over to Jeff Hibbert’s estranged wife’s flat, Jessie had put forward her version of what Helen Hibbert would be like. It was a game she often played with Deepak, a way to get him not to rely on profiles and generics, make his own mind up, think laterally, outside the box. She sometimes tried to make it competitive, put a bit of money on it, see whose description was closest. Loser bought lunch. He hardly ever bit. It didn’t stop Jessie from trying, though.

‘I reckon she’ll be like him,’ Jessie had said. ‘Middle-aged, dumpy. Short hair, cut like a bloke. Big lumpen face. Like a farmer’s wife. Or a farmer. Kitted out in Barbour’s finest.’

Deepak, driving, had surprised her by volunteering an opinion. ‘Dead wrong,’ he had said.

Jessie smiled, genuinely curious now. ‘Makes you say that?’

‘You’re thinking in terms of generics,’ he said. ‘Letting prejudices get in the way.’ He gave her a quick glance. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Oh, am I now? Well, what’s your highly individual, non-prejudiced opinion, then?’

‘Younger than him, definitely.’

‘You reckon?’

‘And blonde.’

‘Why blonde?’

‘You asked for my opinion, ma’am. I think blonde. But not necessarily naturally.’

‘Obviously.’

‘She’ll be more outgoing, more flashy than him. He’ll have had a hard time keeping up with her.’

‘Really? And on what do you base these non-prejudicial assumptions, then?’

‘Police work, ma’am. Their house has seen better days. So had their marriage. What ornaments there are in the place were quite expensive at one time. A woman’s taste, not a man’s.’

‘Not my taste.’

‘Or mine. But someone liked them enough to buy them. I think she’s got big blonde hair, dresses flashily, spends a lot on make-up, beauty treatments, that kind of thing.’

‘Because that’s the kind of woman who would buy those ornaments?’

Deepak nodded. ‘Are we betting lunch on this?’ A small smile played on his lips.

I’m encouraging my junior officer, she thought. It’s my job. ‘Why not?’

Deepak had been spot on. The flat was along Common Quay, in the newly gentrified waterfront area of Ipswich. She had buzzed them up when they told her they were police officers and it concerned her husband, held their warrant cards up to the video entryphone to prove who they were.

In the lift, Jessie had smiled at Deepak. ‘Doing well so far … ’

Once inside, Jessie realised immediately that she owed Deepak lunch. Helen Hibbert had deliberately arranged herself for their visit. She sat in the corner of her flat, one tanned leg crossing the other, a view of the Ipswich waterfront behind her, as if she was, literally, above all that. She was perfectly made up, her nails just manicured. Jessie imagined her nails always looked just manicured. Her dress and shoes were designer, Jessie noted, and, as Deepak had said, she was blonde. Her face, like her body, was composed. Helen Hibbert had been younger than her husband but not by much. It was clear that, despite all the treatments she had received, her skin was loosening, the crow’s feet were lengthening and it probably took her longer each day to keep looking as she did. Time was catching her up.

She had offered them drinks, gesturing to her own sparkling vodka tonic.

‘I know you might think it’s early, but really, it doesn’t matter. It’s cocktail hour somewhere in the world.’

Jessie had told her about her husband and how they had found him dead. And Helen Hibbert had performed a near note-perfect grieving widow act.

‘Poor Jeff.’ A sigh. ‘Poor, poor Jeff … ’

Poor is right, thought Jessie, thinking of the squalor he had lived and died in. Must have been some divorce settlement.

‘There was something about his death,’ said Jessie, as airily as possible.

Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed. Became beady, shrewd. She stared at Jessie as if her words were about to make her lose money. ‘What d’you mean? He had cancer.’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Jessie. ‘But that didn’t kill him. He was murdered.’

She watched the woman, registering, recording her reactions. Helen Hibbert seemed genuinely shocked. Appalled, even. Jessie tried to read all the conflicting emotions that ran across the woman’s eyes. She couldn’t find empathy.

‘Did … What happened?’

‘An intruder, as far as we can see,’ said Deepak, leaning forward. ‘Perhaps he didn’t expect to find anyone in. Perhaps … ’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps they struggled. Jeff lost. We don’t know. Yet.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us, Mrs Hibbert?’

‘Like what?’

‘Did he have any enemies? Was he in debt? Did he owe money? Would someone have robbed him, killed him, over money?’

‘He was robbed?’

Deepak again. ‘We think robbery may have been the motive.’

‘What did they take?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Jessie. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could give us an inventory of his belongings.’

‘I don’t know what he had.’

‘A laptop, for instance?’

Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed once more. Something was going on there, but Jessie couldn’t work out what.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have no idea.’

Jessie and Deepak shared a look. Jessie tried again. ‘Did he … ’ They heard a sound from another room. Jessie looked quizzically at Helen Hibbert. ‘Someone else here?’

‘A friend,’ she said, eyes darting to the door. ‘Been staying over.’ She stood up. ‘I think I’ve answered enough questions for one day. This has been very traumatic for me. Please leave now.’

Jessie tried to talk to her again, but the shutters had come down.

Outside on the pavement, with gulls wheeling about in the fresh spring air, Jessie stared up at the flat.

‘I hate being lied to,’ she said. ‘And we were being lied to. Question is, about what, and why?’

Deepak nodded. ‘That’s two questions, technically.’

‘Pedant.’ She turned to him. ‘Anyway, I owe you lunch. Well done.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Non-prejudicial profiling. Works well.’

He walked towards the car, a smile emerging on his face. ‘And I saw a photo of her in his wallet.’

‘You bastard … ’ Jessie followed. Smiling.

33

Helen Hibbert stared out of the window, watching the two police officers walk away down the quay.

‘Oh shit … ’

She felt hands on her shoulders. Warm fingers circling, smoothing over her muscles.

‘Fuck off, Glen.’

The movement stopped abruptly.

‘Can’t I soothe you? Make it all better?’ asked a man’s voice in what he probably assumed was a low, sexy growl but which actually sounded more like inflamed tonsils.

‘Not now. I’ve got to … to think.’

She felt her bought-and-paid-for man stepping away from her. She kept her eyes on the two police officers as they reached their car and drove away.

So they got him, she thought. They actually did it. She knew what had happened. Jeff must have tried his blackmail scheme and it backfired. Terminally. She took another sip of her drink. Where did that leave her? She knew just as much as Jeff had about what the Sloanes had done. Would they come after her next? She took another drink. If they did, then that was it. She would end up just like Jeff. But if she pre-empted them … A plan began to form.

The two police officers had disappeared. Her glass was empty. Glen reappeared behind her. She turned. He really was good-looking, she’d give him that. Talented and endowed. But expendable. There were plenty more where he had come from.

‘I’ve got to go out, darling. Wait for me.’

He would. As long as she was paying him.

34

Michael Sloane stared at the laptop’s screen and willed its secrets to appear before him. He punched more keys. Waited. Nothing.

He stretched and looked round. Dee was silent, which wasn’t unusual. He knew where she would be, who with and what she would be trying to do. And he had a good idea how far she would get, too.

He didn’t mind her playing her games. Took part in them, even, encouraged them, like their psychiatrist had told him to do. It kept her grounded. Happy. And, if he was honest, he enjoyed them too.

Michael put it all out of his mind and concentrated on the laptop. His keyboard skills were good; usually his fingers just glided. But on this laptop, it wasn’t easy. The keyboard was old, the letters kept sticking. He made mistakes. And when he made mistakes, he got angry with himself. And that wouldn’t do at all.

So he controlled the anger, accepted that it wasn’t his fault and kept working. It was on here somewhere. It had to be. Locations, intentions, plans. How they were going to attack, when and where. Everything. All he had to do was find where Hibbert had hidden it.

He hit another key. It stuck. Blocked him entry to where he had been going.

He sat back, about to shout at the screen, but caught himself. No. This wasn’t working. He had to change his approach.

He closed his eyes.

What would I do, where would I hide something, if I was Jeff Hibbert?

He thought himself into Hibbert’s head. What did he like? What were his interests? His ex-wife. Everyone knew that. He could bore for England talking about her.

He opened his eyes. Photos. That was it. He checked the hard drive. And there they were. He opened them. Smiled. Helen Hibbert in various stages of undress, sometimes on her own, sometimes with various partners, often more than one. Sloane laughed.

Dirty bastard …

He scrutinised the photos, checked the files they were in. Kept scrolling through.

And found the folder he was looking for.

He sat back, reading. Once he had finished, he smiled. How obvious …

He reached for his phone. It was easier to phone rather than shout. Dee answered.

‘The Golem’s with you.’ A statement, not a question.

Dee said nothing.

‘Tell him I’ve got a job for him.’ He looked at the laptop. ‘Tell him he’s going hunting.’

35

Marina stood on the beach at Wrabness, reading the email. Now she knew why she had been sent here. And it wasn’t the reason she had first thought.

Stuart Sloane. Somehow this was all connected to Stuart Sloane.

She walked upriver along the beach, putting the dilapidated farmhouse behind her. The trees were thickening, blocking out the sunlight as she went. The beach huts were set back from what passed for sand, up on stilts, accessible only by wooden steps. Most of them looked occupied, people there for Easter. Some seemed to have permanent occupants. Marina thought it a curious place for a holiday, and certainly to live. But then the place was forever tainted for her.

This is everything you need to know, the email had said. Read it.

As she walked, she worked through in her mind what she had just read.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Stuart Milton. Stuart was different. He was special. He had learning difficulties. He was socially awkward, missed the cues other kids didn’t, was out of step with the other kids by at least one beat. But a good kid. A nice kid.

A harmless kid.

He had never known his father, who had left when Stuart was very young. His mother, Maureen Milton, had taken any job that came along, anything to feed herself and her son. She ended up working for the Sloanes, a local landowning family. They, as the brochure said, ‘had farming concerns, and were the producers and harvesters of most of the seafood from the area, particularly cockles, mussels and oysters’. Maureen worked in their house, cleaning and serving. She did work hard, we’ll give her that. And she made herself popular with most people. One in particular.

Jack Sloane was the head of the family. He had just lost his wife, so he was in a bit of an emotional state. He liked Maureen and asked her to move in. She brought her son with her. Now Jack Sloane liked Maureen a lot, and let her know it. For her part, she was happy to respond to his attentions. Jack proposed marriage and Maureen accepted. The wedding was arranged and Stuart was adopted. He was now officially a Sloane.

So far, so happy ever after, Marina thought. But then the tone of the email had changed, become angrier.

But not everyone shared Jack and Maureen’s delight. Michael and Deanna, his son and daughter, for instance. Because they saw Maureen for what she really was, a common gold-digging bitch, and they thought her son was a thick, useless mong. They told them so before the wedding. And how did Jack respond? Threatened them with disinheritance.

The next part of the email was a link to a local newspaper from sixteen years ago. Marina had opened it. It was headlined: Bloodbath in Wedding Day House of Horror.

The article told how the Sloanes had enjoyed a perfect wedding day and couldn’t have been happier. The following day, however, the police were called to the scene of one of the biggest and bloodiest massacres they had ever come across. The house had been destroyed. Every ornament smashed, every piece of furniture upended, gutted, broken. Phone lines ripped out. The family had been stalked through the house by a maniac with a shotgun. Jack Sloane and his new wife were both dead. The son and daughter, Michael and Dee, had been shot and left for dead. One of the family’s workers, Graham Watts, had phoned the police to raise the alarm. There had been horror on finding who was discovered holding the shotgun: Stuart Sloane.

Marina could remember the rest. Stuart Sloane was arrested and charged. Although he was technically an adult, his defence lawyers claimed he was unfit to stand trial as he was not mentally competent. They brought in as many psychologists and psychiatrists as they could afford, to assess Stuart and back up this claim. To diminish his responsibility, to plead for him as mentally unfit.

It was damage limitation and the defence knew it. The evidence, although circumstantial, was too damning. They were in no doubt that he had done it. All they wanted was for him to avoid prison. Serve his time somewhere that could help him, not harm him.

And that was why Marina knew the story so well, even without the email, because it was one of the first cases she had been assigned after leaving college. She knew that newly qualified psychologists were rarely presented with opportunities like this, and if she didn’t mess it up, there would be a lot more work coming her way. It was also an opportunity to show just what she could do. But she remembered it for another reason.

She hadn’t believed Stuart Sloane was guilty.

She remembered him being led into the psychologist’s office in HMP Chelmsford. Everyone referred to him as a man because he was eighteen, but when she finally met him, she thought he was just a boy. A small, confused boy, underweight, his growth stunted by a childhood of malnutrition, his educational progress hampered by the damaged hard-wiring in his brain.

She stopped walking, looked at the trees ahead of her. Tried to think of the questions she had asked him, the answers he had given her. She couldn’t recall specifics, but she remembered his attitude, his demeanour. Lost. If she had to sum him up in one word, it would be that. A lost boy cast adrift in the big city after inadvertently letting go of his mother’s hand. He didn’t understand what was going on around him, or how serious his situation was.

He had been found with the shotgun in his hand, and the police had, with good reason, assumed his guilt from that. She had gone along with that assumption, as directed by the defence lawyers, and her questions had been weighted accordingly.

What was he doing at the house? Could he remember what had led up to that? How had he felt about his mother marrying Jack Sloane? Specific, focused questions.

But he was vague in his answers, unfocused when asked about those specifics.

He couldn’t remember how he had felt, or what he was doing there. But he had been very happy for his mother. His mother was happy so he was happy too.

What about his mother now?

Now he was sad. Very sad. And Marina remembered him looking sad as he said it. Then his expression had changed, his face had lit up in a smile. But it was all going to be OK, because Jiminy Cricket had said so.

Marina had been intrigued. Asked him more. Who was Jiminy Cricket? Why was everything going to be OK?

He had looked at her beatifically. Jiminy Cricket was the voice of his conscience. Jiminy Cricket had said his mother was in heaven with the other angels. And Jiminy Cricket had a plan. Everything would work out OK. Just wait and see.

Afterwards, she had repeated the conversation to the lawyers. They weren’t surprised. Other psychologists had experienced the same thing. They believed that Stuart had a split personality. His damaged mind had been unable to cope with the enormity of what he had done, and he had abnegated responsibility in that way.

Marina hadn’t been convinced. She had read his records. Stuart had never displayed any prior symptoms of multiple personality or dissociative states. This Jiminy Cricket sounded like a real person, someone else in the room with him. Stuart seemed to have no knowledge of how the shootings had been carried out, or indeed how to use a gun at all. She wasn’t convinced he was actually responsible for the killings. Yes, the lawyers had said, but it could also be argued that the trauma of his actions had brought on the multiple personalities, had given him the knowledge to use the gun, the courage to act on his impulses …

And that was what they had gone with.

Marina had flagged something else up too. She was sure she wasn’t the only psychologist to notice, but it never appeared in the trial. When she asked Stuart about his stepbrother and stepsister, he recoiled, his expression filled with dread. He became agitated, stuttering and stumbling over words, unable to sit still. Convinced there was something there, she had tried to press him. She wanted to question him further on his relationship with them, but had been politely but firmly reminded what her brief was. The brother and sister were not a part of it. They were the victims in this case. And they were also very rich, so the defence had to think carefully before making any investigations into them or allegations against them. Marina had reluctantly agreed.

The case continued to gnaw at her, but since she hadn’t been called on to give evidence, there was nothing she could do. As her colleagues suggested, she banked the cheque and settled down with a nice big gin and tonic to put it out of her mind.

But she still followed the case on the news, in the papers, and was horrified at the level of reporting, the scale of tabloid vitriol directed against Stuart from people who had never met him. She saw his supposed multiple personalities defence ridiculed and heard no mention of his relationship with his step-siblings. When he was found guilty and sentenced, she wasn’t the least surprised. But she had to let it go. It was no longer her problem.

Until now.

She looked round, trying to find a path back to the beach huts. Then noticed what was in front of her. A huge old house, backing on to the river, crumbling and overgrown, nature trying to reclaim it, pull it back into the earth. And she knew immediately what it was.

The old Sloane place.

That had been one of the stipulations after the trial, she remembered. The brother and sister moved away but wanted the house to be left to rot away on its own. They had refused every offer from developers and the council to buy the land or do something with the old property. They wanted it left as it was.

They had got their wish.

The phone rang. Love Will Tear Us Apart. She answered it and was asked if she had read the email. She said she had.

‘You were the only one who believed him,’ the voice said. ‘The only one who thought he was innocent. We checked the records. You knew what was going on. That’s why we chose you.’

Marina said nothing.

‘Now do you understand why you’ve been brought here? What you’ve got to do?’

Marina, still staring at the house, remembered the last part of the email.

Stuart Sloane was not insane. Stuart Sloane did not have multiple personalities. Stuart Sloane is as sane as you or I. She doubted that part but had read on. Stuart Sloane has been made a scapegoat and been defrauded out of millions by the Sloanes that should rightfully have been his. Stuart Sloane needs to get even.

Stuart Sloane needs your help to do that.

‘Yes.’ Marina sighed. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘Congratulations, Dr Esposito. You’ve got a new client.’

36

Tyrell saw the woman from the kitchen walking towards the caravan and felt immediately angry. He didn’t want her anywhere near him. But he also knew that he didn’t have a choice.

The door was unlocked, opened and she stepped inside. He had only seen her through the kitchen window. She had been angry-looking, red-faced. Now, up close, she looked different. The red had drained from her features, leaving her pale and blotchy. She had applied make-up, but it was uneven, poorly done. Tyrell had read somewhere that faces could be described as sculpted. This woman’s had been chiselled. Her hair was messy, uncombed, and seemed to be at an angle to her head. Her clothes — leggings, trainers, fleece — were shabby and dull, as if they had been washed too many times.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’

He stood up, stared at her. Didn’t move. She wasn’t meeting his gaze.

‘I don’t like you,’ he said.

She sighed, looked at her watch. ‘Which breaks my heart.’

‘You were horrible to that little girl. Really horrible.’

She said nothing.

‘You shouldn’t have talked to her like that.’

‘None of your business.’

He could feel something welling inside him but wasn’t sure what. ‘You scared her. You shouldn’t have scared her.’ Anger? Sadness? ‘You should never scare children. Never … ’ He felt the hot pinprick of tears at the corners of his eyes as he kept staring at her. She looked away from him. Was she embarrassed in some way?

Tyrell moved in towards her. She flinched, moved back slightly. ‘You threatened her.’ He scrutinised her closely. ‘What kind of person threatens a little girl?’

‘Look, just … get ready. Come on.’

‘Get ready for what?’

She sighed, spoke almost to herself. ‘For this to be over.’

‘Over? Today?’

‘Yes, today. He’s told you already.’ Her voice was exasperated, like she was explaining something to an exceptionally slow child. ‘Now stop being thick. Get ready.’

‘That’s not a nice thing to say. That’s a really hurtful thing to say. Really hurtful.’ He sat down on the bed again, upset by her words. He thought. Hard. Came to some conclusions. ‘I don’t like you. I’m not going to do what you say.’ He nodded. ‘No. I’m not.’

She put her hand on the sink, shook her head. ‘Jesus … ’ She looked up. ‘Just … just come on. We’ve got to get going.’

He didn’t move or give any indication of having heard her.

She sighed once more. ‘You’re going to meet the woman who’s going to help you.’

‘To do what?’ Said without looking at her, straight at the wall.

‘To … make you feel better. Well.’

‘Am I ill? I’m not ill.’

‘No, no, you’re not ill. But she’s going to help you feel … happier. And make you rich.’

‘Rich?’

‘Yes. And … and make up for all the things that have happened to you.’

‘How?’

‘She just will. But you have to come and meet her. And we have to go now.’

He gave her words some thought. Rich. He couldn’t imagine what rich was like. He remembered a time when he was supposed to have been rich, but that was a long time ago. Before prison. Before he was Malcolm Tyrell. He couldn’t remember it clearly. All he knew was that it had been a happy time. Before …

Before everything went wrong.

But rich meant happy. He knew that much. He had been told. And happy, he knew, was good.

He stood up. ‘All right, then.’

‘Thank Christ for that. Just—’

‘But there’s one more thing.’

Another sigh. He could tell she was trying hard not to get angry. Not to get all red-faced again. She wasn’t doing a good job of it.

‘What?’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on, we haven’t got time for this.’

‘I want to see the little girl.’

‘Oh, Jesus … ’

‘I want to make sure she’s all right.’

‘She’s fine. She’s OK. Come on … ’

He sat down on the bed once more, unmoving.

Another exasperated sigh from the woman. She looked like she wanted to hit him. He didn’t look at her. She waited. Nothing happened.

‘Right. Fine. I’ll go and get her.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And then we’ll go.’

She stormed out of the caravan. He heard her stomping angrily back to the house. He sat on the bed looking through the window, watching her go.

I’ll see that the little girl is all right, he thought, then I’ll go with them. He thought again. Go where? And who was this woman they wanted him to meet?

Although the caravan wasn’t cold, he found himself shivering.

I wish I was back in prison, he thought.

I wish things could be easy again.

37

‘You took your time.’ Anni was waiting in front of Ipswich General. Franks had called her, said that since Suffolk were doing all they could to track down Josephina, she should join Mickey in hunting for Marina.

Mickey pulled up and she got in. He drove off, heading down the A14, on to the A12.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Been doing proper police work. How’s the boss?’

She thought of the figure she had seen lying in the hospital bed, bandaged, wired and tubed. His eyes were taped up; his body was battered, misshapen and damaged. The dressings hid the areas that had been shaved and stitched, cut open and rejoined. They both defined and exaggerated the shape of him.

‘Well as can be expected,’ she said. She told Mickey that Phil hadn’t been near the centre of the explosion but had been caught in the blast. The flames had seared his arms, his torso. Flying debris — most likely a part of the wall — had hit him on the head. That was what was giving most cause for concern. He had been operated on, the pressure relieved, and now left to recover.

Mickey winced. ‘Fingers crossed, then.’ For a long time he said nothing, then Anni became aware of him looking at her.

‘What?’

He looked back to the road. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘You were staring at me.’

‘Sorry.’ He felt himself blushing. ‘I just … You don’t look like you’ve been roughing it all night, that’s all. You look fresh. Alert. You look … good.’ Eyes facing front all the time he spoke.

A smile crept around the corners of Anni’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’

He shrugged, mumbled, ‘Welcome.’

‘The things you can do with concealer.’

Mickey said nothing more. Put the radio on. Anni settled down into the seat, smiling to herself.

It took them the best part of an hour to reach the hotel near Braintree that Marina had last been spotted at. The two uniforms were waiting for them. Mickey parked up. He and Anni went into reception.

‘She just ran,’ said the first constable, Alison Irwin. ‘We tried to stop her, talk to her, but … ’ A shrug. ‘Tom tried to flag the car down.’ She indicated her partner, who nodded.

‘She just drove round me,’ Tom Crown, the other uniform, said.

Anni crossed to the receptionist. Questioned her too. She had nothing much to add.

‘Apparently she hid from us in a supply cupboard,’ said Tom Crown. ‘Told the maid she was hiding from an abusive husband.’

‘Inventive,’ said Anni.

They went to the car park, traced the path Marina had taken. They went up to her room to see if she had left a clue behind, anything to show where she was going, what she was doing. Nothing.

‘We’ve put the registration number of her car out as a general alert,’ said Alison Irwin, ‘but we’ve had nothing back yet.’

They thanked the uniforms for their help, went back to the car.

‘Where to now?’ asked Anni.

‘Maybe we should head back to base,’ said Mickey. ‘See if there’s been any more sightings of her car.’

‘You mean my car.’

‘Sorry. Your car.’

They drove away from the hotel. Anni looked at Mickey this time.

‘So I’m still looking good, am I?’

Mickey glanced at her, frowned, shifted his eyes back to the road. ‘Yeah. Why?’ Suspicion in his tone.

‘Just wondered. I heard that this DS from Suffolk’s been giving you the glad eye, that’s all.’

‘What, you mean Jessie?’

‘Oh, it’s Jessie, is it?’

‘Yeah, Jessie James.’ Mickey smiled. ‘And she says she’s heard all the jokes before.’

‘What, even the one about the Suffolk force being a bunch of cowboys?’

‘Apparently. But I don’t know if she’s been giving me the glad eye or not.’

‘OK. Just checking.’

‘Why, you jealous?’

She shrugged. ‘You know me. Not the jealous type.’

Mickey and Anni had been involved in a tentative on-and-off relationship for the last few months. They had been out a few times, dinner, cinema, drinks, but neither had wanted to be the one to push it further. They were good friends, excellent work colleagues. And they were worried they could lose all that.

Anni’s phone rang. Relieved at the break, she answered it. Milhouse, the unit’s resident computer expert. Milhouse wasn’t his real name, but with his thick glasses and studious demeanour, he bore such a strong resemblance to the character in The Simpsons that that was what everyone called him. Even his girlfriend, probably. If he had a girlfriend. Which Anni doubted.

‘Got a lead for you,’ he said.

Anni took out her notepad. ‘When and where?’

‘Shell garage in Marks Tey. Marina’s debit card’s been used.’

‘We’re on our way.’

‘I’ll phone ahead,’ said Milhouse. ‘Get them to line up any CCTV footage they’ve got.’

‘Brilliant. Thanks, Milhouse.’ She rang off.

‘What’s occurring?’ said Mickey.

Anni told him.

‘Let’s go, then. Not far from here.’

The radio continued to spew out top-forty hits in between the DJ’s banal inanities.

They drove on in silence.

38

The Golem enjoyed being in the car. The doors were locked and there was a metal and glass barrier between him and the rest of the world. And he was going forward. Heading towards something.

Even if that something involved someone else’s death.

In the car, he could tune out everything else. Centre himself. Meditate while moving.

He drove a Prius. And took a small delight in the fact that it confounded expectations. It was not the car of an assassin, but that was what he liked about it. It was both anonymous and environmentally friendly. That was good, because when he died, he wanted to leave as little trace of himself behind as possible. Like a footprint in damp sand, washed away by the incoming tide. The way it should be.

That was what he tried to achieve with his victims. There one second, gone the next. Simple and clean, like switching off a light.

He knew that one day it would happen to him. And he was ready for it. Every day he prepared for death, either to give it or take it. And every day that he gave it and didn’t take it he gave thanks.

But one day it would be him.

One day.

He was also pleased to get away from the Sloanes. They had been regular employers over the years. They paid what he asked and their assignments were not too taxing. They would have been good employers if not for the sister. She was getting to him. And he didn’t allow that. Something would have to be done about her. One way or the other.

Jaywick was signposted left. He turned left.

He drove. He was centred, prepared.

He was ready.

39

Marina followed the sat nav, her foot hard down as far as she dared. On the way to Jaywick. On the way to meet her daughter.

She had insisted that that was part of the deal. The voice hadn’t been too pleased. ‘After you’ve seen … ’ it nearly said a name, ‘your patient.’

‘Look.’ Marina kept her own voice as calm, as reasonable as she could. ‘I’ve already told you I’ll see your patient. I’ve agreed to that. But we’re negotiating here. And I won’t talk to him until I’ve seen my daughter and know that she’s safe.’

‘No,’ said the voice. ‘We’re not negotiating. You’re going to do what you’ve agreed to do and then you’ll get her back.’

Marina wanted to scream, to rage. If they had been there in front of her, she would have attacked. But she swallowed that down, kept her voice calm, controlled. She knew she would only get somewhere if she behaved like a professional. ‘No,’ she said, in as measured and slow a tone as she could manage, ‘this is a negotiation. You’ve told me what you want me to do. And I’ve agreed to do it. But that agreement comes with certain conditions attached. I want to see my daughter. If you won’t do that, then I go to the police and tell them everything.’

‘What’ll happen to your daughter then?’

Again Marina had to control herself until she was sure she could speak without screaming. ‘You’ll let her go. Because there would no reason for you to keep her. You’ve explained your plan to me. And without my help, there will be no plan.’

There was silence on the line. Marina waited. She was suddenly aware that she was shaking. She wished she felt as strong as she had made herself sound. She wondered if she had gone too far. If they didn’t go along with her proposal, she might never see Josephina again. She knew now what was at stake. She guessed that if they were desperate enough to kidnap her daughter to make this work, they wouldn’t stop there.

‘All right,’ the voice said. Anger and defeat in its tone. ‘You can see her. But then you do what we want. And you don’t get her back until you’ve done it. Right?’

She felt a wave of relief wash over her. ‘Thank you. Just make sure she’s safe.’

‘She’s safe. Now get going.’

The phone went dead. The postcode was texted for the sat nav. She entered it and drove.

As she did so, she thought about the voice. In the time she had been talking to it, it had evolved. It was no longer intransigent, unyielding; it could be reasoned with. She knew that happened in negotiations; sometimes whole relationships developed. The way this person spoke led her to believe they were an amateur. A professional wouldn’t have engaged with her on any level. If she had made demands, been obstinate or refused to play, a professional would have harmed her daughter, even executed her.

This person — or persons — was reachable, and Marina felt a glimmer of hope at that thought. Perhaps the initial intransigence was down to fear, she thought. Perhaps they didn’t know what they were doing and had hidden behind a character.

She was glad now that she had left a clue. Just a small one, at the service station. She just hoped that someone had seen it, would be clever enough to work out what she had done, and follow her.

She kept driving. Hoping her daughter was all right. Wishing her husband was there with her.

Trying desperately to be brave, for their sake.

40

The Golem’s sat nav told him he had reached his destination. He turned the engine off, took in his surroundings. Worked out logistics, made plans. Studied approaches, possible obstacles. The house was old, dilapidated. Detached. No neighbours to interfere. There was a caravan at the side, in as bad a state as the house. Two cars parked in front of the house.

He scanned once more, searching for other exits. To the back of the house were fields. To the side, fields also. To the front, the secluded road the Golem had parked on. If they wanted to leave, they would have to come past him.

Good.

He opened the glove box, took out a small telephoto lens. Looked through it. Scanned the front of the house for alarms, wires, anything that told of security. He knew the lengths people went to hide such devices, knew what to look for, what the giveaways were. A new wire on an old building, sometimes painted to blend in, the shade always slightly out. The raised outline of sensors on window frames, door catches. A rusted old alarm box mounted on the wall, seemingly not working, concealing a state-of-the-art security system. He had seen it all.

But this house seemed to be exactly what it said it was. He could detect nothing that wasn’t meant to be there.

Another good sign. The omens were becoming auspicious for this job.

He turned the lens on the caravan, just in time to see a woman leave the house and walk towards it. Beside her was a small girl. She was holding her wrist, half dragging her along. The Golem studied the body language of the two. The girl looked like she was being held against her will and had been crying. The woman looked stressed, like she just wanted everything concluded as quickly as possible.

In another life, the Golem would have been upset about the little girl, shared some empathy for her situation. But not any more. Now it was just a job. He had his instructions: take the man and the woman out, any way he wanted. The other man should be brought to the Sloanes. The little girl … use his discretion.

He scanned the borders once more. If they saw him coming, all they could do was run. That would make his job more difficult, but not impossible. They wouldn’t get far. Not with him blocking the entrance to the main road.

A line of trees fringed the road. He could use them for cover as he made his way down there. Good. He got out of the car, locked it. Started to walk, keeping in the shade of the trees, not allowing his own shadow to be cast in the open.

He looked once more at the house. Despite the sunshine, the place carried an air of depression. As if whoever lived here had reached the end.

How true, he thought.

As he walked, he saw movement in one of the ground-floor windows of the house. He stopped, took out the lens once more. A man was sitting at a table, laptop before him.

He would be the first target.

He put the lens away, walked on. Reached the house, rounded the corner.

Then the dogs started to bark.

41

‘This is Josephina. Josephina, this is … ’ The woman thought for a few seconds. She seemed to have genuinely forgotten Tyrell’s name.

‘Malcolm,’ said Tyrell, feeling strange saying the name out loud. As if it confirmed his new identity.

The little girl just stared at him.

He looked back at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, her nostrils encrusted with snot. She looked tired and terrified, like she had woken from a nightmare to find it was real. The woman still held her by the wrist. She looked like she should have been holding a soft toy in the other hand.

Tyrell, thinking he might be scaring her, sat down to be nearer her height.

He tried to smile at her. From the expression on her face, he must have failed.

‘Hello, Josephina. How are you?’

She just stared at him.

‘Have they hurt you?’

‘Oh for God’s sake … ’ The woman twisted Josephina’s hand, trying to pull her away, back to the house.

‘Stay where you are.’

She stared at Tyrell, surprised at the strength in his voice. At the stern words, Josephina looked like she was about to cry. He softened his voice again. Looked at the girl. Was careful not to touch her. He didn’t want her to get the wrong impression about him. That was important to him.

‘Sorry for shouting,’ he said, his voice soft once more. ‘But have they hurt you?’

Josephina risked a glance up at the woman, who was staring off out the window. She looked back at Tyrell, gave a slight shake of her head. No.

She’s saying no, he thought, not because it’s necessarily true, but because it’s the answer she’s expected to give.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you either. You’re safe when you’re with me. When I’m here.’

Josephina looked like she didn’t believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed himself.

‘I won’t let them hurt you.’

A sigh from the woman. ‘You finished? Yes? Happy? Good. Because we’ve got to get on.’ She pulled Josephina’s wrist, dragging her to the door.

But Tyrell wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. ‘It won’t be long. They want me to meet your mother. They want her to do something for them. Then you and your mother can go home. Together.’

Another sigh from the woman.

‘Mummy?’ said Josephina. She looked around. ‘Mummy?’

‘We’re going to meet her,’ said Tyrell.

‘Don’t go telling the kid that, shit-for-brains,’ said the woman. ‘We’ll never be able to manage her.’

Tyrell stared at her. Felt himself shake with anger at her words. ‘You look after this child, or I won’t do anything you want.’

The woman stared at him.

‘And don’t swear in front of her. It’s not nice.’

Another sigh. Exasperation this time. ‘Jesus … ’

Then the dogs started barking.

The woman dropped Josephina’s wrist, moved hurriedly to the window. ‘Oh fuck.’

‘What did I just say?’ said Tyrell. ‘No swearing in—’

She turned to him.

‘This is bad,’ she said. ‘This is very fucking bad.’

42

DS Jessie James tried hard not to let her irritation show.

DC Deepak Shah had received a call on his mobile. Fair enough. But instead of just answering it or putting it on handsfree and loudspeaker, he had insisted on pulling the car over.

‘Just take the call,’ she had said, exasperatedly, not for the first time.

He had ignored her, followed his own procedure. She had shaken her head. Bet he demands an invoice every time he makes a cup of tea at home, she thought.

‘No,’ he had said. ‘It’s this one.’ And had dug down into his trouser pocket, pulled out a second mobile. An old black clamshell.

Two phones. Jessie shook her head.

He listened, asked a couple of questions, and Jessie became curious, despite herself. Deepak took out his notepad, wrote something down. Jessie tried to see what it was, but he kept it angled away from her.

Sometimes she wanted to kill him.

He ended the call slowly, almost ritualistically, and pocketed the phone.

‘Two phones?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t be too careful,’ he said. He patted his pocket, checked the notepad, entered something into the sat nav, put the car back in gear. When a space in the traffic appeared, he pulled out.

‘Can’t be too careful?’ Jessie laughed. ‘What, like the American cops that used to carry two guns? One a throwdown piece, for shootouts.’

He said nothing.

‘That’s you, is it? The British equivalent? What you going to do, call someone to death?’

‘That was the station,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘They’ve traced the car.’

Jessie was suddenly all business. ‘From outside the cottage? The one that was there when the cottage went up?’

He nodded.

‘And?’

‘It’s registered to … ’ He glanced at his notepad. ‘Michael Sloane.’

‘Right. Good. We got an address?’

‘On the pad. I’ve taken the liberty of keying it in. I presumed you would want to go there and question them.’

‘Absolutely. No time like the present.’

They drove on.

‘Sloane … Michael Sloane … ’ Jessie frowned. ‘Why does that name mean something? I’ve heard it before.’

Deepak nodded. ‘I agree. Can’t remember where, though. Shall I pull over, ma’am? Make a few calls?’

‘No, just keep going. We’ll do it later.’

‘You’re the boss.’ He kept driving.

Deepak annoyed the hell out of her. But she had to admit, he was a damned good copper. In fact there was no one she would rather have alongside her.

She smiled to herself. Well, perhaps Mickey Philips …

43

The Golem cursed and stopped walking. Such a simple mistake. An apprentice’s error. Why would they need elaborate security systems when they could have attack dogs?

He looked round once more. Saw a curtain being dropped back into place in the caravan. Glanced at the house. Saw the person at the downstairs window look out, hurry away again. Saw activity. The laptop being closed up. Someone getting ready to leave in a hurry.

No change of plan. He made for the house. Quickly.

As he reached the corner, he heard something. The dogs’ barking changed in tone. Lower, growling. Then he heard a gate opening. By the time the Golem realised what was happening, it was too late. The dogs were free and barrelling towards him.

He looked round. He wouldn’t reach the car in time. There was no other shelter, no hiding place. They would catch him. He gave another glance round for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, fight them off. Found nothing.

He stood, braced, as the two slavering animals bore down on him, jaws apart, ready to pounce, to tear him to shreds.

He closed his eyes. Centred himself. There was nothing he could do about the physical contact, the pain. That was going to happen. The sooner he accepted it, embraced it, the sooner it would be over.

But he could do something about the noise. Most people, when faced with an attacking dog, were terrified. He knew that. And it wasn’t just the open jaws and the anticipation of pain that terrified them; it was the noise too. The barking, growling, howling. That was what scared people. But the Golem wasn’t people. He kept his eyes closed. Focused. Channelled. Blocked out the sound.

He opened his eyes once more. The dogs were still coming towards him, but he could no longer hear them. And if he couldn’t hear them, then he could think. And if he could think, then he could strategise.

The first one, a slavering black and mustard Rottweiler, jumped up at him. It was huge, almost the same height as him at full stretch. But the Golem wasn’t going to allow himself to feel scared or intimidated.

As the dog jumped, he pulled back his arm, brought it forward. Hard. Landed a punch on its neck. The dog’s legs immediately went limp and it fell to the ground, dazed. The Golem kicked it in the head, hard as he could. His steel-reinforced boot connecting with the dog’s skull, the bone splintering, crunching as it hit.

The dog lay twitching, spasming.

The Golem knew he would get no more trouble from that one.

He turned to the other dog. He had no opportunity to defend himself this time. Would just have to take the pain.

The second Rottweiler was on him. Its jaws opened, distended, clamped down on his left forearm. The pain coursed through him, hard and fast, like he’d grabbed an electric cable.

He tried to ignore it. Couldn’t. Screamed.

Hearing that, the dog bit down harder. Tried to wrestle him to the ground, rip his arm off in the process.

The Golem resisted, pulled the opposite way. He could feel flesh and muscle, skin and sinew tear away from his bone as he did so. The blood pumped out, soaking his shirt, filling the dog’s face, its eyes. The dog tasted it, got high on the bloodlust, bit down all the harder. Pulled more ferociously.

The Golem saw the figure from the window move outside. The target was getting away.

He brought his right arm over, bunched his fingers into a fist, brought it down hard on the dog’s snout. The dog roared, either in pain or anger, he couldn’t tell, but didn’t let go. He hit it again. The jaws loosened slightly. Pursuing the advantage, he forced the dog to the ground. It struggled, tried to get away. He pinned it down with his legs.

He managed to get his fingers into the dog’s mouth, pushing back against its teeth. The dog squirmed, tried to wriggle away. The Golem wouldn’t let it. Despite the pain making him light-headed, he held on.

His fingers pushed against the dog’s top jaw. He used his left arm to pull its lower jaw down. He could feel the teeth sinking further into his flesh the harder he pulled down. He focused, concentrated, tried to ignore the pain.

Kept his mind on his goal. His target.

The target must not escape.

He pushed further. Heard, felt something tear in the dog’s face. Kept pushing. More blood, the dog’s this time, as he prised its jaws apart.

He felt its grip on his arm loosening, heard a whimper from within its throat. He kept pushing.

The dog realised it was beaten, let go.

The Golem pulled his arm from its jaw, let the dog slump to the ground. It lay there, whimpering.

He looked over at the house. His target would be getting away. He glanced down again to the dogs. They were both in pain, dying. He couldn’t leave a wounded animal in that state. He knelt down beside the first one, looked into its eyes. Snapped its neck. Did the same to the second.

Then stood up.

Target in his sights.

44

‘There,’ said Mickey, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s her.’ Grainy CCTV footage showed Marina standing at the counter of the service station, looking around anxiously, handing over her card, getting out as quickly as possible, not even waiting for her receipt.

‘She seemed to be in a hurry, I remember that about her.’ The woman who had served her was speaking. She was big, heavyset. Anni thought she looked like a farmer’s wife. Probably was.

‘You sure that’s all?’ said Anni. ‘Anything else you can tell us about her?’

The farmer’s wife stared at the screen, trying to dredge up some memory that would help. Anni had found this a lot with witnesses. They wanted to feel involved, part of the investigation. They wanted to impart some knowledge that would be pivotal, that could crack the case. Something no one else had spotted, something unique. But the woman couldn’t do it.

Probably because there wasn’t anything more there.

‘How did she seem to you?’ asked Mickey.

‘Just like she looks on there,’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘Wanted to pay and get away, as quickly as possible.’

‘Which way was she headed?’ asked Anni. ‘Towards Colchester or towards Braintree?

The woman thought again. Trying hard to be helpful. Eventually shaking her head. ‘Colchester, I think.’

‘Can we see it again, please?’ said Anni.

The farmer’s wife rewound the tape. They watched Marina queue up, tapping one foot in impatience. They saw her look round, anxiety in her face. At one point she stared directly into the camera.

‘Pause it,’ said Mickey.

The woman did as he asked. Mickey and Anni both studied the blurred image.

‘What’s she doing?’ said Anni. ‘Is she … D’you think she knows she’s being watched?’

‘I think she does, yeah,’ he said. ‘She knows she’s on CCTV.’ He turned to the farmer’s wife. ‘Play it forward a few frames.’

She did so. They watched as Marina seemed to stare right into the lens. She looked apologetic, beaten. Then she paid.

‘That’s that, then,’ said Mickey, sitting back.

‘Keep watching,’ said Anni. ‘There’s something … ’

Marina had bought a pack of mints. They watched her take one, then, when the farmer’s wife wasn’t looking, screw the wrapper up and drop it on the floor.

‘Nice,’ said Anni.

Then she was out of the shop and on her way.

They both sat back. Looked at each other.

They fired a few more questions at the farmer’s wife, but it was clear to both of them that the woman had told them everything she could. Mickey left his card with her in case anything else occurred to her. They thanked her for her time, drove off.

‘Well, that was less than helpful,’ said Mickey.

‘What did you expect? She clearly doesn’t want to be found. For whatever reason.’

They drove towards Colchester. Mickey checked his watch.

‘Nearly knocking-off time. We’ve got no more leads, no other jobs we should be doing. I reckon we should head for home.’

‘Reckon you’re right,’ said Anni. ‘We’re about to hit overtime. Franks wouldn’t like that.’

They drove on in silence. Anni eventually spoke. ‘So, you got any plans for tonight?’

‘Me? Nah. Nothing special.’

‘Really?’ There was a playful edge to Anni’s voice. ‘Not rushing off to Ipswich to see your cowgirl DS?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

From the side, Anni could see that Mickey was reddening. His driving had speeded up too.

‘I told you,’ he said, feeling he ought to explain more, ‘there’s nothing in it. Not on my part, anyway.’

‘Good,’ said Anni. ‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’ Anni smiled. Moved towards him. ‘In that case, if you’ve got nothing special on tonight and you’re not after her, why not come back to mine?’

The expression on Mickey’s face, thought Anni, was priceless.

45

The pain was excruciating. The Golem sank to his knees, clutching his torn arm with his good hand. He wanted to black out. He wanted it to stop.

But he knew he could have neither.

Closing his eyes, focusing on finding a still point, removing the pain from his mind wasn’t an option. If he closed his eyes, even for a second, his quarry might escape. And he couldn’t allow that. So he had to give himself the mental and emotional equivalent of a field dressing. Attempt to block it out as much as possible and keep going.

He struggled to his feet, took a couple of deep breaths. Tried to stop his head from spinning. Concentrate on his task. He was a soldier. He was being paid to deliver a service.

So do it, he told himself.

The Golem resumed his walk towards the house. He saw the figure through the window, panicking, hurrying to disconnect a laptop and other electronic items. He watched as the figure gave up on the wires, bundling everything together and just making for the door, laptop under his arm.

The Golem would be ready for him.

He increased his speed, breathing heavily each time his booted feet thudded on the ground. Reached the door of the house. Tried it. Locked.

Of course.

Clutching his arm, he tried to move quickly round the side of the house, stop his target from leaving that way. He found him exiting by the dog kennels. The man stopped, stared at him. Face illuminated by fear.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘you … you don’t have to do this … ’

The Golem said nothing. Just stood there waiting for the man to make a move.

The man had the laptop under one arm, gripping it hard, clutching it against his body. His other hand was hidden. He looked like he was torn between running and fighting.

Fight or flight. The Golem knew that feeling well. He had lost count of the times he had come up against someone, had to anticipate which way they would go. Had to be ready if they did either.

The Golem said nothing. Usually his silence unnerved opponents; this time it was out of necessity. He didn’t have the energy to speak as well as move. Didn’t trust his mouth not to scream if he opened it.

‘I’m going to have money soon. Lots of money … ’ the man continued. ‘I can give you … half. You want half?’

No response.

‘Whatever, then. Whatever you want. As much as you want. Please … please don’t … ’ The man edged forward slightly, eyes pleading. ‘Don’t kill me … ’

The Golem stood his ground. The man, shoulders hunched, body imploring, moved towards him.

‘Please … ’

The Golem let him come. Made his job easier.

The man drew near. When he reached arm’s length, his left hand appeared from behind his back. He was holding a huge kitchen knife. His eyes glittered and he brought it forward, straight towards the Golem’s chest. He screamed as he lunged.

Last reserves of adrenalin kicking in, the Golem pivoted, moving his torso away from the blade. It struck him in the arm — his right arm — slicing along his bicep, sticking in. More pain.

His assailant quickly pulled it out, jabbed and slashed again. The Golem felt his arm being cut, sliced. His head swirled as the pain increased. He was staggering, about to black out.

His attacker sensed victory. The Golem could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Wouldn’t allow it to happen.

The man took another swing with the blade. It connected with the Golem’s right side. He stuck the blade in hard. His eyes blazed. He couldn’t believe he was winning.

The Golem had to do something. He had to turn the situation into an opportunity. He moved in close to his assailant, trying to ignore the feel of razor-sharp metal being pushed further into his body as he did so.

He reached out his right hand. Took his attacker by the throat.

His opponent knew immediately what was happening. What the Golem was doing to him. He tried to wriggle out of the grip, push his body away from the attack. Couldn’t. Even though the Golem’s grip was weaker than usual, it was still stronger than most people’s.

Stronger than his assailant could break.

The knife dropped from the man’s fingers. The laptop from his other hand. He brought both hands up to his throat, clawed at the Golem’s fingers, tried desperately to prise them off.

The Golem felt pain running all over his body. Like he had been trussed up in electrified barbed wire. He tried to ignore it, concentrate on this one task, the job he had been paid for.

His assailant struggled. The Golem locked his fingers. Squeezed harder.

‘I want more life, fucker … ’

Attacker became victim. His face reddened, turned purple. His eyes bulged, looked ready to pop. His constricted throat made a rattling, gurgling sound. He stopped struggling.

The Golem felt the man’s body begin to weaken, start to go limp. He gripped even harder, summoning his remaining strength to do so.

Eventually his victim’s body lost the will to fight. The Golem’s will was stronger.

He released his grip, watched as the body slumped to the ground, looked down at it.

‘Time to die … ’

His head felt light, his legs, arms trembled. His own body was going to give up soon. He knew that.

He heard a noise. Turned.

Saw his Prius rocking, moving, coming to a halt. The front left side crumpled, the light hanging out through smashed glass like a distended eyeball.

He saw the car that had knocked his out of the way driving off. Guessed that the occupants of the caravan had been in there.

Bending down and almost keeling over, he picked up the laptop and turned. Made his way slowly down the drive, past the corpses of the dogs, back to his car. His self-preservation instinct overrode everything else.

He got behind the wheel, put the car in gear, drove off.

He made it about half a mile down the road before pulling in to the entrance of a forest and passing out.

46

The day was winding down. The sun giving up the fight, falling out of the sky. Marina felt the same. She was tired and hungry, running only on adrenalin and hope.

She followed her sat nav. It told her she had reached her destination. She saw a house before her. Old, dilapidated. A caravan next to it in a similar state. A parked car.

No one about.

She got out of the car, locked it behind her. Walked slowly up the drive towards the house.

She couldn’t help but notice that on her right were two black and brown lumps, the ground dark and glistening around them. Feeling a thud of trepidation in her heart, she crossed over to look at them. Her heart flipped at what she found there.

‘Oh God … oh God … ’

The two Rottweilers were dead. One was bloodied and torn; the other just looked broken.

Hurrying yet hesitant at the same time, she made her way up to the house.

Where she found the body of a man by the back door.

Marina turned, doubled over, retched.

Straightening up, she found her head spinning. She looked round, feeling like she was losing whatever tenuous control she had recently gained over her situation. She ran to the caravan, pulled open the door. No one there. But someone had been here, and quite recently.

Leaving the door swinging, she ran back to the house. Closing her eyes, she stepped over the corpse by the door, entered.

The house, despite the brightness outside, was in darkness. Someone had been living there and it looked like they had left in a hurry. On the kitchen table were the remains of a meal and some electronic equipment. It looked like someone had started to dismantle it then decided to leave. The food had been similarly abandoned.

Marina counted the dishes. Three. Two adult-size plates, one small one. Her heart lurched once more.

‘Oh God … Josephina … ’

Marina found her voice. She went through the rest of the house screaming at the top of her lungs.

‘Josephina! Josie!’

Her only reply was an echoing stillness.

The house looked like it had been squatted in. Clothes, belongings, scattered all over the place. Sleeping bags lay on mattresses. There had been two people in one room. She spotted that.

But in the front room she found something else. A rope tied to the door handle. It stretched down to another mattress on the floor. A thin sheet covered it. At the side of the mattress was a small stuffed animal.

Marina felt her legs about to give way, her heart break. She fell to her knees. Picked up the toy.

‘Lady … ’

Josephina’s toy dog. The one she thought was Lady from the Disney film. She never went anywhere without that. Slept with it clutched to her chest. Carried it round the house during the day. Talked to it at mealtimes.

Tears came then. But Marina didn’t know whether she was crying from loss, helplessness or rage. Or all three.

Head swirling, she stood up, the toy clutched in her hand.

She made her way out of the house, back to the car. Got in. Drove away.

No idea where she was going.

Just as fast and as far away as she could.