many were used in the waking hours, either, apart from on certain days – rows of wooden skeletons, looking like the carcasses of long-dead monsters.
Monsters like the ones she’d been so afraid of when she was little. Silly really, being scared of imaginary things like that, when there were so many real things to be frightened of after you grew up. She wished more than anything at that moment – as she slipped on her own blood, righted herself and lunged towards the stalls – that she could go back in time to those days. Back when make-believe creatures under the bed were the only things to worry about. Back when life was so much simpler.
She used the stalls to drag herself along, still searching the space for … there! Someone was waiting in the middle. Or at least she thought it was someone, only to get there and realise it was just tarpaulin hanging down on yet another frame. Things were getting hazy now, her vision blurred. Time was running out. If the monsters here were dead, then she wouldn’t be far behind them. And wasn’t there a part of her that felt relief at that, because living was so, so hard? She’d always assumed it would get better, but it never really did; always thought there would be a brighter day to come. Instead, it was getting darker by the second.
She flopped onto that stall with the canvas sheeting, pain shooting through her again and waking her up momentarily. Forcing her onto her back, because the knife wouldn’t let her lie down on her front.
If I could just go back. If I could just see him one more time.
The man who’d always chased away those monsters back when she was tiny, who’d picked her up and put her on his shoulders when they’d go for walks in the park. Who’d tried to teach her right from wrong, set an example. And whom she’d treated so, so badly.
That’s why the name that had been on her mind, the name that came out – as she finally went blind, as the last of her vital lifeblood seeped out – wasn’t that of the person who’d done this to her. Their name was as far from her thoughts as possible.
No, the name she uttered with her last breath was that of the man she thought might come, as if they shared some kind of psychic bond and she was sending out a distress call. It was the person, when all was said and done, that she still trusted most in this world; the irony being that he probably didn’t even know that anymore, regardless of how true it was.
No, the name on her lips was simply this, uttered as if she was 5 again: ‘Daddy.’
Then all she knew was the dark.
The historic town and borough of Redmarket is situated thirty miles west of Granfield, and is so called because of its association with the meat trade, dating back to its founding in 70–100 AD. Originally the site of a Roman fort, later on an Anglo-Saxon village grew up around the area. However, it wasn’t until the early thirteenth century that it received its official market charter. Known for its friendly locals, Redmarket is surrounded by beautiful countryside and yet is only a stone’s throw away from a number of other thriving towns and cities.
It always had been, and remained, the worst part of this job.
Some coppers called it the ‘Death Knock’ or delivering the ‘Death Message’ – but whatever name you gave it, the result was the same. You were delivering news that would devastate a family, changing their lives forever. Once the words were out, there was no taking them back again. The knowledge would have an impact on everything, from doing the groceries to whether you even wanted to get up out of bed in the morning.
So, DC Mathew Newcomb paused before rapping on the wood of that door. It wasn’t simply the gravity of what he was about to impart, although it was the worst thing anyone could ever tell another human being; the worst thing they could possibly hear, as well. It wasn’t even the effect on him; that wasn’t – shouldn’t be – what this was about. He’d done this dozens of times, although selfishly on this occasion he knew it would upset him more than any of the others. For the same reason he’d volunteered to come here in the first place, along with the Family Liaison Officer Linda Fergusson. Because he owed this family, knew them personally.
Because he knew the victim.
Linda was looking at him, those brown eyes of hers questioning. Mathew couldn’t put the moment off any longer. He brought his knuckles down on the wood, hard, a couple of times. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want the knock to sound flippant – he wanted it to somehow convey the seriousness of his business. Wanted it to have told them some of what he needed to impart even before the people inside had answered the call.
Sadly, when the door opened, and standing there was the one person he would have gone to the ends of the earth not to see, she only frowned momentarily, then was suddenly smiling. ‘Matt?’ said Julie, and it was as if the decades hadn’t really passed at all. They were still at school together. She had been his first crush – those freckles and that flaming red hair. Both had faded in the intervening years, the latter to an auburn colour. But in spite of a few wrinkles here and there, the beginnings of crow’s feet at the eyes, she was still beautiful – even in those jeans and a loose shirt. She was still Julie Brent … Jules. How could he have thought he’d ever stood a chance with her? She’d only had eyes for one bloke, right from the start. ‘I can’t believe it. What are you doing …? I haven’t seen you since the reunion a few …’ Her gaze flitted from Mathew to his companion, but now she was frowning again. ‘Mathew, what …?’
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Mathew realised he was standing there like an idiot, yet there was nothing he could do about it. The words simply wouldn’t come.
This had been a bad idea, he said to himself. He’d wanted to … what, break the news to Julie gently, make sure it was delivered in the right way? Was there even a right way? Didn’t feel like it at the moment. Not at all. Wanted to be there for Julie, then? Even after all these years. But he was making such a cockup of it, leaving the poor woman just standing there, wondering what was going on. Looking from him to Linda, then back again. All Mathew could do was shake his head.
‘Matt? Matt, you’re scaring me.’
You should be scared, he couldn’t help thinking. He opened and closed his mouth again, looking for all the world like a ventriloquist’s dummy whose owner had laryngitis. In the end, he managed a strangled, ‘I’m so sorry.’
But, as it turned out, he didn’t need to say any more than that. She’d already realised he was here in an official capacity, from his expression, from the fact he wasn’t alone; knew what his job entailed. There were really only three people this could be about – and Mathew had heard that Julie’s dad was in a home somewhere, so if something had happened to him, she would have received a phone call from there. That left a choice of two, and probably only one of them hadn’t been in the house all night. Wasn’t an uncommon thing, if what he’d heard about the girl was correct – which was why Julie hadn’t been worried …
Until now.
It was Julie’s turn to shake her head, going into denial: ‘No … no, it can’t …’ Mathew had seen this on more than one occasion as well. Julie’s hand was going to her mouth, tears were already welling in her eyes.
‘Who the bloody hell is …’ The voice drifted through even before this newcomer followed, dressed in a vest and pyjama bottoms. Mathew recognised him as Greg Allaway, Julie’s husband. Hair closely cropped to hide the fact he was going bald, and with a well-cultivated beer belly – even more so than the last time he’d seen the man – he was totally the opposite of what Mathew would have expected Julie to end up with. Mathew might not have stood a chance back in school, but he could run rings around Greg Allaway as it stood today. If he hadn’t been married himself, of course. The thought made him uncomfortable, and wasn’t welcome in any