by T. M. Logan
Praise for
‘Smart, intense and with a humdinger of a mid-point twist. I loved it’
GILLIAN MCALLISTER, ON THE CATCH
‘Taut, tense and compelling. Thriller writing at its finest’
SIMON LELIC, ON THE CATCH
‘T.M. Logan’s best yet. Unsettling and so, so entertaining.
The perfect thriller’
CAZ FREAR, ON THE CATCH
‘A tense and gripping thriller’
B.A. PARIS
‘Assured, compelling, and hypnotically readable – with a twist at the end I guarantee you won’t see coming’
LEE CHILD
‘A compelling, twisty page-turner, and that’s the truth’
JAMES SWALLOW
‘Outstanding and very well-written . . . so gripping I genuinely found it hard to put down’
K.L. SLATER
‘A terrific page-turner, didn’t see that twist! A thoroughly enjoyable thriller’
MEL SHERRATT
‘Another blistering page-turner from psych-thriller god T.M. Logan’
CHRIS WHITAKER
‘Even the cleverest second-guesser is unlikely to arrive at the truth until it’s much, much too late’
THE TIMES
Contents
Part I: The Boyfriend
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part II: The Son-in-Law
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part III: The Husband
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Part IV: The Catch
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
One Year Later
Chapter 81
Acknowledgements
Letter from Author
About the Author
Also by T.M. Logan
More thrilling reads from T.M Logan
Copyright
For John and Sue,
Jenny and Bernard
People only see what they are prepared to see.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
He shifts the knife to his left hand, feels for a pulse. Two fingers against the big artery at the side of the neck.
Nothing.
The skin is still warm to the touch, but the body is still. Completely still. The last flickers of life extinguished.
The main thing now is to be calm. Because they won’t understand. Things just got out of hand. He hasn’t chosen this – but his hand was forced. Besides, in a way it was his job. The most important and rewarding job he’s ever had. And it was for the best: he only ever wanted the best, for everyone. He had seen the threat, seen the danger, and neutralised it. It was never going to work out, anyway. Not long-term.
She would get over it, in time. Over him.
He wipes the knife blade clean and slides it back into its sheath.
The ground is a rough carpet of moorland grass, coarse and unyielding. He uses his bare hands to dig into the soil next to the body, revealing the dark Derbyshire earth beneath. He pushes his fingertips into it, feels the loamy dirt yield to the pressure, soft and damp after the recent rain. This is good.
It will be easy to dig.
PART I
THE BOYFRIEND
1
FRIDAY
I sat on the patio, the last rays of evening sunshine warming my face, listening to the warble of skylarks high up in the sycamores that bordered our garden. A Friday in mid-May, the twilight air rich with the tang of cut grass and the wispy smoke of neighbourhood barbecues. Warm enough to sit outside in the garden after dinner, sipping strong dark coffee as my daughter played badminton in the middle of our wide lawn with her new boyfriend.
It was the first time we’d met him, even though Abbie had been seeing him for seven months. He was tall, athletic, with the looks of a catalogue model in a Sunday supplement. Pale pink linen shirt and chinos, his deck shoes dutifully removed in the front porch before he’d even been asked. And there had been no kisses on the cheek for my wife, Claire, or her mother, Joyce – not even an air kiss – just a hand extended to each of them, equality in action. Respectful, not too forward but not stand-offish either. His handshake had been firm and dry, his grip confident as he gave my hand a little extra squeeze.
As I watched the two of them play, Ryan flailed at the shuttlecock, making a big show of overbalancing, tripping, landing flat on his back, still flapping his racket at the air. Laughing as he lay in one of the long evening shadows slanting across the lawn. Abbie’s own laugh was high and pure, rolling and echoing across the garden.
There was a little ripple of laughter from the table beside me too. Claire and Joyce smiling over at the pair.
‘They make a good-looking couple,’ Claire said, stretching her tanned arms above her head. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘I wouldn’t have said no, if I was a bit younger,’ Joyce smiled, sitting forward in her wheelchair. ‘Just look at them together.’
‘Don’t you think, Ed?’ Claire put a hand on my forearm, her fingertips warm against my skin. ‘It’s lovely to see her happy again, isn’t it?’
‘She really seems to like him,’ I said, not meeting her gaze.
It was true: Abbie was happier than I’d seen her in a while. It sounds like a cliché but this evening she was pretty much glowing. These last few months there had been an endless stream of Ryan-this and Ryan-that, as their long-distance weekend relationship developed.
‘He seems like a lovely boy,’ Joyce said.
‘He’s thirty-three,’ I said. ‘Not exactly a boy, is he? Almost ten years older than her.’
‘You know what Mum means,’ Claire said. ‘Look at them together, you can see they’ve got a real connection.’
‘We’ve only just met the guy.’
My wife turned to me, a question in her voice.
‘Ed?’
‘What?
’
‘Abbie is really, really keen on him, so just give him a chance, all right? I don’t think he’s like the rest.’ She gave my arm a little squeeze. ‘Be nice.’
‘I’m always nice,’ I said quietly.
‘Of course you are, darling,’ Claire said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘Of course you are.’
I returned my attention to the badminton match as Ryan slashed wildly at another shot and hit the shuttlecock into the net.
Abbie was barefoot in the grass, dressed in white jeans I hadn’t seen before with a thin-strapped flowery top. Her fine dark hair flowed behind her as she darted from side to side. She had played since she was tiny, since she could only hit the shuttlecock one time in ten. Every summer I had set up the net on the lawn and we’d played endless games. It was a good memory; but it made me ache too.
‘Rematch?’ she said to Ryan, with a smile.
‘Will you go easy on me?’ he said, getting to his feet and brushing blades of grass from his pale trousers.
‘No chance!’ Playfully she fired another shuttlecock over the net at him.
I studied him as they played. He was certainly well put together, a kind of a boy-band-next-door handsome. A light scattering of stubble across a strong jaw and a dimple in his chin. Straight white teeth that he showed often, a smile that seemed genuine and warm. Straight, strong eyebrows; eyes a deep, heavy brown, so dark they were almost black. He caught me watching, and our eyes met. But he didn’t smile, he didn’t look away, he just stared.
And that was when it hit me.
A jolt of nervous static right at the top of my spine, a shiver, as if someone had just walked over my grave. Something shifting in the air between us, vibrating like a plucked string.
It was primal, visceral. An ancient instinct that would have warned a stone age hunter there was a wolf crouching in the shadows, ready to pounce. You can’t see the danger, or smell it, or hear it. But you sense it, as the fine hairs stand up on the back of your neck.
And I knew it then, as I looked Ryan in the eyes. That was the moment I realised there was something not quite right about my daughter’s new boyfriend.
There was something hidden in the dark shadows behind his eyes.
Something off.
Something very, very wrong indeed.
2
In the kitchen I picked up the coffee pot hissing on its hotplate, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my chest. I took a breath, the pot shaking in my hand. Could I have got it wrong somehow? Until now Ryan had seemed nice enough. But I could still feel the effect of his stare, adrenaline jangling through my veins.
Something about him wasn’t right, I was certain of it. Something he was hiding.
Back outside on the patio I refilled Claire’s cup, trying to catch her eye, but she was distracted pulling a cardigan over her mother’s shoulders. Abbie re-joined us at the table, flopping down in one of the big wooden garden chairs. Tilly, our elderly cat, jumped ponderously up onto her lap and began kneading the legs of her jeans, leaving long grey hairs on the white fabric.
‘Your turn, Dad.’
Her voice made me look up, and I forced a smile.
‘Always ready to give you some target practice, Abs.’ I put the coffee pot down. ‘Just remember I’m not the garden champion I used to be, so you need to give me a chance.’
‘Not me,’ she said, scratching behind Tilly’s ears as she blinked and purred. ‘I need a rest. You can play Ryan.’
‘Oh. Really?’
Claire shot me a look.
‘Sure,’ I said, taking the proffered racket. ‘Why not?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Ryan said with a smile, walking casually over towards us. ‘I’m terrible at badminton.’
I kicked off my flip-flops, the newly-cut grass tickling the soles of my feet as I followed Ryan over to the middle of the lawn, catching a hint of his aftershave, sharp citrus and something else; pine or eucalyptus. As he took up position on the other side of the net, I hit the shuttlecock in a high lazy arc to get the game going, my wife’s words returning: Be nice. But where Ryan had been flailing at the shuttlecock before, now he began lobbing and smashing with practiced ease, putting his shots beyond my reach. Instead of sprawling on the ground for Abbie’s amusement, he was poised and precise, springing from side to side and dictating the pace of play, ridges of muscle standing out on his forearm.
He threw the shuttlecock high into the air and instead of following it, I watched his face. He glanced at me and then smashed down so hard that before I could register the movement I felt an impact on my chest with an oomph.
‘Ryan!’ I heard Abbie say with a laugh. I raised a hand to say I was fine, even as my chest stung with the impact. Ryan laughed and made a big show of putting his hands up in apology.
‘Sorry, Ed!’
The score was 7-2 to Ryan when I sensed him easing off. He started missing shots that moments before he had been making easily.
The match finished 11-9 to me.
I paused to catch my breath. My polo shirt was already sticking to my back with perspiration, the cotton clinging to my skin.
‘Good game,’ Ryan said. He had barely broken a sweat. ‘Fancy another?’
‘Let’s have a breather first.’ I indicated the patio table where my family sat. ‘A quick drink. You sure you won’t have a coffee?’
‘Thanks, Mr Collier, but I don’t do caffeine.’
I delved into the big ice bucket and splashed a little on the back of my neck, the water deliciously cold after the exertion of the match.
‘We’ve got beer and wine,’ Claire said, ‘or there’s other stuff in the kitchen if you’d like something else?’
Ryan held up a hand, gave that smile again.
‘Not for me thanks, I’m driving to Manchester tomorrow and it’ll be an early start, then Monday morning I’m back here on shift doing school visits, so I probably shouldn’t.’
‘Ryan volunteers, as a special,’ Abbie told her grandmother. ‘A special constable, with the police.’
‘Oh, I say,’ Joyce said, gathering her cardigan further around her. ‘A policeman? We’d all better be on our best behaviour, hadn’t we?’
‘I’m not a fully-fledged officer,’ Ryan said. ‘We’re more there for support, community policing, foot patrols, public safety initiatives, that kind of thing. I’ve been doing school visits around knife crime the last couple of months. It’s just good to give something back, you know? To feel like you’re making a contribution.’
I refilled my coffee cup and studied him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t look like the police officer type. Too polished. Too perfect. Then again, my last real contact with the police had been a long time ago. A lifetime.
‘Of course, of course,’ Claire said. ‘So how about a Diet Coke? Mineral water? We have squash in the kitchen, or juice?’
‘Mineral water is perfect, thanks Mrs Collier.’
She fished out a small green glass bottle bobbing in the ice bucket and handed it to him.
‘Call me Claire, please.’
‘Thanks Claire.’
Joyce rose slowly to her feet, levering herself up out of the wheelchair with her walking stick gripped in a shaking hand.
‘Time for a little lie down inside, I think.’
Ryan was on his feet instantly, offering Joyce his arm, steadying her as she turned to go back into the house.
‘Thank you, Ryan,’ Joyce said, giving him an indulgent smile. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all,’ Ryan said.
‘Nana?’ Abbie said, rising too now. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, love, this nice young man’s looking after me. I just need my twenty minutes.’
The three of us watched as Ryan escorted her inside, her hand on his forearm. Beside me, Claire sighed and shook her head.
‘Seems like Mum’s getting weaker by the day,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you think those new drugs are even working?’
; I took her hand in mine, the skin of her palm soft and warm, and gave it a little squeeze.
‘Let’s talk to the oncologist again on Monday,’ I said. ‘See if they can have a look at the dosage.’
She nodded as Ryan re-emerged from the house and sat back down at the table. Abbie gave her boyfriend a look, something passing between them in silence. Then she put Tilly carefully down on the patio and stood, handing her mother one of the badminton rackets.
‘Come on Mum, your turn to take me on.’
‘I’m not really dressed for it, darling,’ Claire said, indicating her blue patterned wrap dress. ‘And I’ve had wine.’
‘No excuses,’ Abbie smiled. ‘But I’ll give you a three-point head start if you like?’
Claire reluctantly got to her feet and took the racket, following her daughter over to the net. I was reminded once again how alike they looked: same olive complexion, same fine dark hair, same slender frame – Abbie just a couple of inches taller than her mother. Ryan and I sat in silence for a moment, watching them play, the shuttlecock sailing in lazy arcs back and forth over the net in the soft evening light. The friendly banter between them soothed my discomfort. Claire and Abbie were my whole world: I loved them so much, sometimes it was like an ache deep in my chest.
There was a feline squeal of alarm and I turned to see Tilly, her ears back, eyes narrowed, hissing up at Ryan. Was he just moving his foot away? He reached out a hand to stroke her but the cat flinched back and hissed again, her tail fluffing up in alarm. She was moving strangely, lifting up one of her back legs.
‘Sorry Ryan,’ I said. ‘She’s not often aggressive like that. She normally likes everyone.’
I held a hand out to her but she hissed at me as well before scurrying away towards the garage.
‘She’s very distinctive looking,’ Ryan said.
‘Half-Siamese, gives her that pointy face.’
Ryan rubbed at the back of his hand.
‘Did she scratch you?’ I said, watching him.
‘No, it’s fine.’
I studied his face. The friction I’d felt between us was gone. Had I imagined it? He smiled, almost embarrassed at my gaze, and I forced a smile back.
‘Never seen her do that before,’ I said.
‘Maybe she just needs to get to know me.’
‘Maybe,’ I said.