Kill A Stranger: the twisting new thriller from the number one bestseller

by Kernick, Simon

  I knew who that person was. Only too well.

  And it wasn’t my fiancé, Matt.

  8

  Kate

  I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the door open again, but it was no more than five minutes.

  One set of footsteps came towards me, moving purposefully, and instinctively I tensed again.

  And then I felt the ropes round my arms being untied and the noose being taken off. This time I could smell the person much better, the chemical odour having largely disappeared. I got hints of expensive deodorant, leather, soap and masculinity.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ said a robotic male voice, disguised by some app or machine.

  I felt another rush of relief as a bottle of cold fresh water was pushed to my lips. I drank the contents greedily, water splashing down my front and making me shiver in the cold.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered as he took the bottle away, knowing I had to establish some kind of relationship with my captor.

  He then said something unexpected: ‘I’m sorry I had to put you through that. But it was necessary. No harm will come to you if you do what you’re told.’

  I didn’t believe him, but it was best to go along with it for now. ‘I will,’ I told him. ‘But could you give me that blanket again? I’m freezing.’

  He put it over my shoulders, holding it in place with his arm as he led me off the stage and through a door. We were going the way we’d come in, and I could tell from behind the blindfold that he was using a torch and that the interior of the building was dark. As the space opened out again, I guessed we were back in the entrance foyer. My feet were no longer bound, there was no sign of the other kidnapper, and freedom was only a few yards away . . . but I’d already decided not to try anything stupid.

  I figured we were going to the car, but instead he guided me to a staircase on the other side of the foyer and led me up two separate flights onto the second floor, then down another long corridor, which smelled more strongly of smoke than downstairs. I silently counted the steps I was taking as we turned into one room, then immediately right into another much smaller one.

  ‘All right,’ said my abductor. ‘Sit down here.’

  He let go of my arm and I carefully placed myself down on what I immediately realised was a toilet seat. I was in an ensuite bathroom, which made me think this place had been a hotel at some point.

  He told me to stay still, then put the torch down on the floor. I heard the sound of chains rattling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘I’m keeping you secure,’ he said, wrapping the chain twice round my left ankle before attaching it to something else.

  That was the only moment I genuinely considered making a bolt for it. I knew that once I was chained in place, I wasn’t going anywhere. But I remained still and acquiescent while he fixed a padlock to my leg.

  ‘Can you release my wrists, please?’ I pleaded. ‘The cable’s really tight. I won’t do anything, I promise.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I need to keep you completely secure. It won’t be for long.’

  ‘How long?’ I asked, careful to remain polite and calm.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. It depends on too many factors.’

  I didn’t ask him what those factors were. Instead I asked him the obvious question. ‘Why am I here?’

  My abductor stood up with the torch. ‘I think you know the answer to that,’ he said, and then left the room, double-locking the door behind him.

  And that, of course, was the big problem.

  I did know the answer.

  9

  DCI Cameron Doyle

  Kate. She’s an interesting one. Sure, she looks like a kidnap victim. Her long hair’s a twisted, tangled mess; she has big, black bags under her eyes; there are deep red marks on her wrists from where the cable tie bit into her flesh, and further marks on her left leg from the chain that had been wrapped round it.

  So yes, she looks the part. But does she sound it? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself as the interview goes on, and the fact is, I’m not sure. I once led a raid on the house of a violent drug dealer suspected of kidnapping his ex-girlfriend and holding her hostage over a debt. We found her in a back room blindfolded, gagged and chained to a radiator, where she’d been for the previous two days. I’ll never forget how traumatised she’d been. She was taken straight to hospital and was unable to speak to us for the best part of another two days. When she finally did, it took hours to coax the story from her.

  I know it’s crude, but on a trauma scale of 1 to 10, I’d have that girl at about 9.5. And I’d have Kate on about 4.5 at an absolute push. Which still means she could be telling the truth. But the fact that she’s so lucid and talkative just doesn’t sit right with me.

  Something else. I don’t like the way she immediately lawyered up before saying a word to us. Her brief is a hard-as-nails silver-haired woman from a top-notch London firm. The kind who costs you six or seven hundred an hour plus VAT. Of course, she’s perfectly within her rights to get legal representation, but if I were an innocent kidnap victim eager to tell my story, and without a guilty conscience, I might not have made such extensive preparations.

  Kate has secrets she doesn’t want us to know about. I have an idea what some of them are too.

  And they don’t cast her in a very good light at all.

  10

  Matt

  The loud blast of an unfamiliar ringtone woke me from a worryingly deep sleep, and for a couple of blissful seconds I had the pleasure of not knowing where I was.

  Then I recognised the car horn sound and everything came back to me in an unwelcome flash: the abduction; Kate with a rope round her neck; the body of the anonymous woman slipping into the darkness of the river. I was back in the nightmare.

  I must have fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room and I patted at my pockets with increasing urgency for the phone the kidnapper had left behind. It was still dark outside, and I knew I hadn’t been asleep for long. Not allowing me to rest was another way of keeping me pliable and disorientated. But I had no choice but to go with it.

  I found the phone and shoved it to my ear.

  The robotic voice of the kidnapper broke the silence. ‘How did you get rid of the body?’

  ‘The river,’ I answered tightly.

  ‘Did you weigh her down?’

  Jesus Christ. What kind of conversation was this? ‘No. But she floated off downriver.’

  ‘She’ll be discovered soon enough. It would have been a lot easier if you’d buried her. But at least nothing connects her to you. Hopefully by the time she’s identified, you and Kate will be reunited and on your way back to Sri Lanka.’

  It scared the hell out of me that he knew so much about us. ‘Look, I’ve done what you’ve told me. Now please can you release her? I’m willing to let all this go. I won’t talk to anybody.’

  ‘Of course you won’t, Matt. You’re no longer in a position to. Because you’re implicated now, aren’t you? You’ve dumped a body in the river and your DNA’s all over it. All it would take is one anonymous call to the police and you’d be a step away from a murder charge.’

  He was right. He had me now. But that was still a lot better than the alternative, which was never seeing my fiancée again.

  ‘But I don’t want you to have to face a murder charge,’ he continued. ‘That doesn’t benefit me at all.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘For you to do exactly what you’re told. The first thing you need to do is go to the garden shed. Inside you’ll find a black backpack, tucked in behind the log stack on the left. Bring it to the house and open it. I’ll call you back in five minutes.’

  The line went dead and I got to my feet. The world had dried out a little and there was the faint pinkish glow of sunrise to the east. I looked at my watch: 7.20. I’d slept for longer than I’d realised but I still felt like shit. It had without doubt been the strangest and most gru
esome few hours of my life, and I had a grim feeling it was only going to get worse.

  The rental cottage had a long, narrow garden which ran down to a small orchard, with a disused chicken coop on one side and the garden shed on the other. I could see the car from last night on the other side of the adjoining field. Still in the same place. Still empty. In the daylight, it was even more obvious how much of the cottage – not just the side, but the garden and, more importantly, the driveway in front – would have been visible to anyone inside the car. It was a perfect concealed spot to watch us without being noticed, and I was certain that whoever had been in that car had been spying on us. I wondered if it was the dead woman.

  Shivering against the cold, I hurried down to the shed. It was bolted, but not padlocked, so anyone could have got access to it.

  I found the backpack easily enough. It was exactly where he’d said it would be. It felt comparatively light in my hand as I strode back to the cottage, both eager and scared to open it.

  I put it down next to the sofa and made a cup of strong black coffee to fortify myself. I was walking back into the living room when the phone rang again.

  ‘Have you looked inside?’ he asked, his tone suspicious.

  I stared at the backpack. ‘Not yet. But it’s in front of me.’

  ‘Open the main compartment.’

  I put down the coffee and, with a deep breath, unzipped the bag and reached inside, my hand immediately finding a hard plastic handle. I knew straight away what it was.

  The knife was a long black thing, tucked into a leather sheath, the kind I imagined Special Forces operatives carrying. It looked brand new. I put it down beside me and rummaged further inside, quickly locating an A4-sized white plastic folder. It was semi-transparent and I could see a photo inside, as well as a bunch of keys. Propping the phone between my shoulder and ear, I took out the photo and inspected it.

  It was a high-resolution shot of the top half of a man in his mid to late fifties. Taken, it seemed, without his knowledge. He was walking outside, his head stooped forward, almost sinking into his coat as if he was hunched up against the cold. He had slightly unkempt grey hair that was long at the back but retreating steadily on top amidst a fairly angry comb-over; a thick beard of the same colour, and heavy-rimmed black glasses. For some reason, I was convinced he was an academic of some kind, maybe a university lecturer who’d lived the high life just a little too much. There was a second photo in the folder, which was a much more close-up version of the first, and I could see that the man’s cheeks were liberally sprinkled with broken veins, and his nose was the bulbous kind that comes from too much drinking. Other than that, he looked pretty ordinary.

  ‘Are you looking at the photo?’ said the man on the phone, making me wonder if he had a spy camera in here too.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s the man you’re going to kill if you ever want to see your fiancée again.’

  11

  Matt

  I was too shocked to speak. No one expects to be on the receiving end of a line like that.

  The caller filled the silence. ‘I said you were going to need a strong stomach and an even stronger heart. This is your time to step up to the plate, Matt.’

  ‘Look,’ I said desperately, ‘you’re making a mistake. I’m not a killer. I’m a guest-house owner, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Beneath the surface, everyone’s a killer,’ he said with harsh finality. ‘Desperation makes animals of all of us. And animals can kill in cold blood if it’s necessary for their survival. Or the survival of their offspring. And it’s necessary for the survival of yours.’

  ‘Please. Don’t make me do this. Anything but—’

  ‘Do you remember the rules, Matt? You do what you’re told. End of story. That way you get to be reunited with your fiancée and unborn baby. You don’t get to pick and choose what you’re prepared to do. You are going to kill this man. We’ve even provided you with the weapon to do it with.’

  I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. It was insane. I’d never hurt anyone in my life. The last time I’d so much as thrown a punch was during my first year at secondary school, and even then I’d missed. ‘I’m not stabbing a man I’ve never met and I know nothing about,’ I said instinctively, real anger suddenly rising to the surface. ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Then your fiancée dies,’ he said, in a dangerously calm tone. ‘As does your unborn child.’

  His words stopped me dead. I was dealing with a man who’d already left the dead body of a young woman in our bed. I was going to get no mercy here. And yet, like all people capable of empathy, I still held out hope that everyone had some goodness in them.

  ‘Please, I’ll do anything else. Whatever you want. We can get you money, anything . . .’

  ‘Are you finished? You’re wasting valuable time.’

  I stopped, defeated. ‘Yes,’ I said, realising I was actually contemplating doing this. ‘I’m finished.’

  ‘Good. Now grab a pen and paper.’

  I went into the kitchen and found a notepad and pen next to the cooker.

  He then gave me a street house number and postcode and told me to write them down.

  ‘Memorise those details, then destroy the piece of paper. This is the address of the man you have to kill. You’re going to do it this morning. Do not arrive before ten a.m. or after ten thirty. Let yourself in using the keys in the plastic wallet and wait for him to return home. When he does, he will be alone. Ambush him and kill him. He’s not an especially big man, or fit, so it won’t be too hard.’

  I still found it almost impossible to believe what I was hearing. He wanted me to do it in a matter of hours. I wanted to interrupt, to beg him to reconsider. But I didn’t. I kept quiet. Because I knew what his answer would be. That if I wanted my family back, I had to do it. That anyone could be a killer if necessary.

  And the most terrifying thing? He was almost certainly right.

  I kept listening.

  ‘I don’t care how you do it,’ he continued, ‘but I suggest using the knife. Aim for the heart. If he dies quickly, there’ll be a lot less blood. Make sure with utter certainty that he’s dead. When you’ve finished, leave. As soon as I have confirmation you’ve done it, we will arrange returning your fiancée. Do you understand?’

  I understood all right. I also understood that I was being set up. Because this man was obviously not afraid to take risks. And yet he was sending me instead. Which meant he wanted me to take the rap for it.

  He repeated the question, the robotic voice hardening.

  ‘I want to talk to Kate. I need to know she’s all right.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck you. Let me talk to her, or I don’t do it.’ I was desperate to wrestle back some control of the situation while I still had leverage.

  ‘Then she dies,’ said my tormentor. ‘I’ll gut her. I’ll cut out the foetus.’

  ‘You piece of shit.’

  ‘That was a very foolish thing to say. I’ll let it go for now. If it’s any consolation, the man you’re killing is no angel. The world won’t miss him, I promise you.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘There’s no need for you to know anything about him. Just complete the task you’ve been given.’

  ‘What if he’s not there?’ I said desperately.

  ‘He will be.’

  The line went dead and I sat back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and feeling like I was being dragged down a rabbit hole from which I would never emerge. I had no power in this situation. And yet I knew I had to go through with it because, in the end, there was no alternative. I was already involved. I’d dumped the body of an innocent young woman in a river. My DNA was all over her. If I went to the police, who would believe me? And what would happen to Kate and our unborn child?

  Not for the first time in my life, I felt completely alone. A sacrificial lamb with no way back and a way forward that was almost certainly going to end in disaste
r. But why? I knew I hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

  But what about Kate?

  Because as I sat there taking stock of the situation, it occurred to me that I really didn’t know her that well at all.

  12

  Kate

  The hardest knock I ever had in my life was when I was sixteen and my mum sat me down and told me she had cancer.

  Well, that wasn’t quite how it happened. She actually sat me down and told me that Bill, her on-off boyfriend of the past few months – a slimy double-glazing salesman with dyed blond hair and bad teeth – had left for good after she’d finished with him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she’d concluded, a phrase she’d used more than once to describe a relationship break-up (although it was usually the lacklustre boyfriends doing the finishing). Then she’d told me she had cancer. I’d just got home from school. It was only two months until my GCSEs.

  She’d told me not to worry. That the doctors had caught it early so the prognosis was very good. That she’d get better.

  Except she didn’t. She began chemotherapy for stage 3 breast cancer the following week, and I watched with mounting terror as she went slowly downhill. We’d never got on that well. We had our moments. Like when we were watching a film on TV together, sharing a big pack of salted popcorn. But ultimately I resented the fact that she’d always put her boyfriends before me and that her happiness had always seemed more important than mine. I hated her weakness, the fact that she’d remained forever trapped in her dull, thankless existence in our poky little flat in a forgotten part of a forgotten town.

  Yet in the end, she was all I’d ever had. I had no brothers or sisters. Mum had miscarried when I was four, having fallen pregnant by her fiancé at the time, Dave, a would-be entrepreneur who’d been the nicest of the bunch but who’d ended up in prison for fraud. Her dad had died before I was born. She didn’t get on with her mum, who lived up in Scotland with her new husband and who I’d only met once. Her only sibling, my Auntie Julie, lived in New Zealand, where she had her own family.