AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Same as the others. Exsanguination. Although it’s hard to say from where. There wasn’t much blood left in his body by the time the animals got to him. Not much body, full stop. And I’m sure you want to know time of death?” Adam nods. “Moving from left to right”—Ross points—“the victims get progressively more recent, with the oldest having been in the ground for about six months. We’ve sent blood samples for testing, plus swabs of all the affected areas.”
“Thank you,” Adam says, trying hard not to make his gratitude seem forced. “And for doing all of this on a Sunday.”
The pathologist sighs. “Hardly my decision.” He gives Adam a long look. “This is a good case for you, right, Bishop?”
“Good? I’m not sure—”
“For your career. All eyes on you. How you like it. You missed out last time, now this is your moment.”
Adam quashes the ball of annoyance in his stomach. “I want what everyone wants,” he says after a pause. “To stop this guy.”
Ross snorts derisively; Adam glares.
But Ross is right. This investigation will attract attention from all sides: his superior officers, the press, other constabularies. It could make his career: his route to detective superintendent.
“So, cause of death is the same for all?” Jamie asks, desperate to pull the two men away from their shared dislike.
“Evisceration resulting in exsanguination, yes.”
“And all in the last six months,” Adam says. He looks along the row of bodies, thinking out loud. “But apart from where they were found, there’s little in common between them. Male and female. Age range, from about twenty to sixty, right?” The pathologist nods. “And a mix of appearances, ethnicities, and body types.”
“So victimology is going to be a nightmare,” Jamie mutters to Adam’s right.
This whole case is a bloody nightmare, Adam thinks as they leave. Nothing makes sense. Five victims, the numbers above the bodies. The first two, killed quickly, in a frenzy. Then the others: restrained and, Adam assumes from the cuts to their wrists, tortured. Left to die slowly. Prolonging their final moments.
The MO, it’s evolving. And all bodies were moved after death, to the one patch of wasteland. Why? To what end? It’s anyone’s guess. But Adam presumes one thing about the killer: whatever his reason, whatever his motivation, he’s not planning on stopping soon.
CHAPTER
8
THE DAY STARTS like any normal Sunday for Romilly. Waking up, squinting at the light behind the curtains, knowing they have slept far too late. She feels the hazy blur of a disturbed night; warm legs next to hers. She’s surprised her boyfriend isn’t already up and out on a run.
She rolls over to her back and stretches slowly. The movement makes Phil stir; his heavy arm flops across her stomach, then slowly starts to steal under her top. She affectionately pushes it away and plants a kiss on his forehead as she pulls herself to a sit.
He looks at her with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Put the kettle on?” he says with a slow smile. “Please?”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
She gets up. The room is chilly, so she grabs the closest thing to her—Phil’s sweatshirt—and puts it on. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
She goes to the toilet. She washes her hands, checks her reflection in the mirror. She tries to wipe off the mascara that has transferred down to her cheek. With a flick of the elastic band on her wrist, she ties her hair back from her face.
The power is back on. Her hysteria from last night stings, the burn of embarrassment from something that now seems trivial in the hazy sunshine of a winter’s day. Nothing can hurt her—not now. Why does she think it can?
She trudges down the stairs to the kitchen. She puts the kettle under the tap, fills it, then clicks it on. As it fizzes into life, she takes two mugs out of the cupboard and puts teabags in each. One spoon of sugar in hers—a habit chastised by her clean-eating boyfriend, whose scoldings she has long ignored.
She picks her phone up from where it has been charging on the kitchen counter. Idly, she scrolls the apps. Colleagues from the hospital have been out without inviting her. That’s nothing interesting, nothing new. The rejection doesn’t affect her anymore; there is no dent in her skin from their blows.
A well-known author is trending on Twitter, something contentious has been said. A long-held belief, mistakenly shared, or a deliberate ploy to sell books? She’ll never know. And doesn’t care. She didn’t like the author’s last novel, anyway.
Pointless, aimless reflections. Her brain hasn’t yet woken up.
The kettle clicks off. She puts her phone down and makes the tea. She debates breakfast. Toast? Cereal? She puts two pieces of bread in the toaster.
She flicks to the BBC News. She tentatively sips her tea. And then she sees it. The headline demands her attention. She knows she shouldn’t be, but she’s drawn like a moth to the flame. The bright light that will scorch her wings, bring her down to the ground.
