Claire recalled vividly the last time she’d spoken to her father. It had been a day not too dissimilar to this.
She remembered his voice, a voice full of pain.
‘I’m dying, Claire… I’m dying and there’s something I want you to know…’
Her eyes snapped up to stare at her father’s name written in stone. That something he’d wanted her to know had been that he was calling her from his sheltered-accommodation flat, here in Aberdeen, and what he’d just done was her fault. Her fault he was in pain, her fault he was lying in his bath, skin withered in cold, crimson bath water because she had put her own life and career first.
Her fault he’d die alone.
Peter Winters had taken an old, straight razor that had belonged to his father, and opened the veins in both of his wrists.
One final act of defiance.
The fact he’d chosen to take his own life left Claire feeling a mix of emotions, but anger ruled above all.
Peter had been determined to make her feel responsible for his death, to feel that she may as well have used the blade on him herself.
‘…I’m dying and there’s something I want you to know…’
Claire had been left in no doubt what that something had been.
That his suicide was her fault.
He’d done it not for her, but because of her. Because she’d finally had enough. When Claire had told him she was cutting all ties with him, she’d meant it, and it had all but destroyed Peter.
He’d realised, too late, what he’d once had and had for ever lost.
Claire searched herself again, for something buried deep inside her that had failed to surface in the years since.
This time she found it.
There it was; guilt.
Twenty-six months ago, Claire had taken his call just a few short months after undergoing an horrific ordeal herself during a particularly nasty investigation. When Peter had called, she’d believed him to be playing some sick, twisted game with her. Toying with her emotions, something she had been used to throughout her life.
It was only after she heard the unmistakable note of true pain, almost tangible, in his voice that a cold realisation had hit her.
‘This is all your fault… what I’ve done.’
‘Dad?’ Claire had said, and clasped her phone tighter in her hand.
‘There’s so much blood, Claire…’
She shook herself, teeth biting the inside of her cheek. She was cold through to the bone. Inwardly, she told herself to stop trying to feel anything.
That’s what Peter had wanted – for her to feel every ounce of misery and a deep regret.
Claire half turned away from the grave, picked up her suitcase, righted it until it stood freely. She grasped the handle, but something pulled at her inside, made her turn to look at the cold, stone marker.
After Peter had stopped talking on the phone that fateful day, Claire had known deep in her gut that he was gone. She’d called his name over and over as she’d raced back to her car.
By the time she had called New Temple Housing, the association that ran the sheltered accommodation Peter resided in, it’d been too late. They’d found his door unlocked and a carer had been the one to enter the bathroom first. What she saw could never be erased from her memory.
Somehow he had managed, despite his condition, to get into the bath by himself, and with his last ounce of strength, he’d cut so deep with that razor that there was no chance of coming back.
There had been nothing Claire could have done to save him and Peter had wanted her to know that, knowing it’d stick like a knife inside her. As an officer, he knew she would naturally be hard-wired to think about all the possible outcomes had she moved faster, called someone sooner… he might have survived.
Claire glared at her father’s grave.
All that had passed between them had been his own fault. All the misery of his own doing, yet even in death he had been determined to haunt her.
Peter had been found in his bath, red, ice-cold water filling it to the brim, surface still save for the odd drop of blood that fell from one wrist that rested on the cold, enamel rim of the tub.
In his lifeless hand, scrunched up, wet with his blood, had been a photograph of himself holding Claire when she was a baby.
Claire had buried her father with that photograph.
In some small way her father’s death had been a cathartic experience. It had helped her to exorcise some of her past demons. It had taken this long for her to make the journey up here to finally lay it all to rest. Why now, this moment, she wasn’t really sure of. It had just felt right.
She’d taken the decision to bury him in Scotland rather than back home. In the end, Claire had been the only member of the family to have remained in contact with Peter before his arthritis had begun to take hold.
She’d organised a simple ceremony, with only three people in attendance – one had mourned, the other two there because they felt obligated to be.
Claire and her mother, Iris.
The third had been a petite Scottish woman called Aggie. The one who’d found Peter.
Claire and her mother had gone straight to the airport after the burial and got on a flight back down south, still in the clothes they’d worn to the funeral.
Claire cast her eyes around the headstone. She saw a couple of thistles in a patch of overgrown grass just off to the side of the grave to the right of her father’s.
She brushed her hair back from her face as she knelt down and twisted a stem, mindful of the thorns against her hand.
She snapped the stem and stood up straight as she inspected it. Then she dropped it into the vase on Peter’s headstone. She stared at it for a few moments, before allowing herself a little smile. The thistle was a thorny weed, with a beautiful, purple-coloured flower at the top.
Prickly, yet pretty.
Even Peter would’ve appreciated the irony.
*
Claire decided to walk the short distance to the beach after she left the cemetery.
She now stood watching the water, boats tiny in the distance, bobbing about in the rough, cold sea of Aberdeen Bay.
She pushed the handle of the suitcase down, lifted it down a few steps and carried it towards the shoreline, crossing the sand.
The wind howled over the waves that crested, white foam bubbling over the grey water. Claire put her case down and took a few steps closer to the sea, until her feet were only just out of reach of the waves that slid over smooth pebbles and dark sand.
Her eyes squinted in the wind as she looked out to sea. Despite the cold, her cheeks still burned and she breathed in deeply, closed her eyes and embraced the wind, fighting with her body to remain rooted to the spot.
All the sadness seemed to engulf her – the realisation that she’d never see her father again.
She’d only hear his voice in her memories that were mostly tainted, volatile. Claire tried to find something from her childhood that she knew she’d kept stored away for the hard times.
She felt tears building and, for the first time in those two years since Peter had died, she allowed herself to cry. As she gave in to the grief, she heard his final words in her head.
I hope you suffer…
Tears rolled down her wind-chapped cheeks and a silent scream built up inside her.
As a huge gust of wind rolled over the waves, whipping her hair back with invisible fingers, Claire flung her arms out to the side of her. She opened her mouth and let out two years’ worth of built-up pain and anger.
Her screams were swallowed by the howling of the wind.
CHAPTER 2
Raymond Knox looked down at the tagging bracelet around his ankle and frowned at Janet Casey, his offender manager.
‘So, my life isn’t my own any more, is it?’
‘And it was inside Belmarsh?’ Janet said, her Irish accent harsh to Knox’s ears.
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p; He narrowed his eyes but stayed silent. Janet kept her face neutral. ‘This is your chance to prove you can turn your life around and be rehabilitated back into society.’ She paused and pointed to the tag around his ankle. ‘You agreed to this. It’s part of the conditions of your licence.’
Knox avoided her gaze and picked at the skin around his fingertips. He let his eyes wander over her legs, which were bare under her mint-green pencil skirt.
He suppressed a grin.
He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable or threatened.
Knox leaned his long, skinny frame against Janet’s car as she pointed towards the hostel ahead, situated up a short driveway.
‘Your new home from home,’ she said, watching his reaction.
Knox looked up at the large, three-storey building that was in a leafy suburb of Haverbridge, three miles from the city centre.
Knox had spent fifteen years in a cage. Although the building in front of him had no bars across the windows, the thought of going inside still filled him with dread. He had to remind himself that it wouldn’t be for long. Not if he stuck to the plan that had taken all these years to bring to fruition.
For his barbaric acts, Knox had spent the last fifteen years of his life in HMP Belmarsh, a category A men’s prison in south-east London.
Although given a life sentence for his crimes, he’d served the minimum tariff determined by the judge and had managed to pull off a very convincing act at his parole board hearing.
He’d spent those fifteen years behaving like the model prisoner and had managed to convince the prison psychologist that his deviant sexual urges were no longer a part of him.
Normally, offenders like him would face a testing period before being assessed for release back into society but Knox fitted into the ‘exceptional’ category. His mother was dying. She had been diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver and had been given very little time to live. That fact and the success at his parole hearing had sealed the deal.
Knox was glad to be out but he was still far from where he wanted to be. He frowned as he stared at the building ahead.
Hertfordshire Probation Trust had several of these approved premises hostels to house those who were technically still detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and the offenders were ordered to stay in strictly controlled areas. This hostel was close to Knox’s family home and would allow him to visit his father and accompany him to the hospice to visit his dying mother.
Knox glanced up and down the street and at the houses either side of the detached property. If you hadn’t known that this building could house anyone from those convicted of terrorism and violent crime to high-profile sex offenders, this street could easily be like any other in the country. They say like attracts like, but Knox certainly didn’t want to hang around with any of his kind if he could help it.
His eyes wandered up to the windows of the house to the right of the hostel.
He saw a net curtain twitch.
Someone had noticed his arrival. He hoped, if they recognised him, they didn’t alert the press. Great lengths had been taken to make sure as few people as possible knew where Knox was going to be kept.
He pulled his baseball cap down further, obscuring his face, and followed Janet.
Inside, the hostel’s décor was light but basic. Directly ahead a large window had been built into the partition wall, complete with a glass front that could slide across and lock shut from the inside. As they approached, Knox could see an office lay beyond the reception area itself.
Janet smiled at the man who appeared at the reception window. ‘Knox, ten-thirty,’ she said.
John Beckett gave a weak smile as his eyes flicked between them both. He nodded towards the corridor with the stairs. ‘We’re in room one.’
His eyes fixed on Knox. ‘Let’s get you settled in.’
*
Beckett studied Knox with some curiosity as he sat next to Janet. He was trying to remember what Knox had looked like fifteen years ago and see if prison had aged him at all.
Knox was pale, further accentuating his dark eyes. His black hair was sticking up in a spiky fashion and his fingernails were bitten, and had yellowed with nicotine. Knox was a little subdued, but this wasn’t unusual for newly released offenders when they first came to the hostel.
Six months on from his parole hearing and here he was. Thirty-seven years old and ready to start his life again.
‘Right,’ Janet said, smiling at him. ‘Your curfew will be between 7 pm and 7 am.’ She handed him several sheets of paper. ‘The exclusion zone isn’t as restrictive in Haverbridge as you might’ve thought, since all three of the victims and their families no longer live here.’
Knox nodded and crossed his legs and glared at the electronic tag around his ankle
‘I know it’s uncomfortable,’ Janet said. His eyes shot to hers. ‘This latest device is one of the first to be trialed in Hertfordshire.’
Knox paused, then tapped the tag with his finger. ‘I’m like a walking bloody sat-nav. The police will be watching my every move… It’s not like I’m going to do anything stupid. It’s a GPS tag… They’ll even be able to tell where I’m taking a shit.’
Janet ignored him and placed another sheet of paper in front of him. ‘This gives you nformation on the new tag and how to charge it. We’ll be holding monthly meetings to see how you’re getting along and if there are any problems. You’re a MAPPA offender… Your whereabouts can be monitored by the minute.’
The Hertfordshire Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements (MAPPA) had been introduced in 2001 to ensure the most dangerous people living in the community were closely monitored by leading agencies – probation, police and the prison service.
Although Knox had been released under certain guidelines, it was clear nobody wanted to take any chances.
He might have convinced the relevant people he’d changed, but the wider public had already made threats when they’d been informed of Knox’s eligibility for parole.
The threats had made the national headlines. People wanted his blood and the authorities were keen to do literally everything by the book.
Clasping his hands in front of him on the table in the stuffy little meeting room, Beckett introduced himself. ‘I’m John Beckett, the manager here, and you’ll be signing in under my supervision four times a day. If you have any problems, I’m your first port-of-call.’
Knox smirked and looked away. ‘CCTV, psych-tests, a GPS tag and routine drug tests, despite the fact I’ve never used in my life.’ Knox shook his head as his eyes met Beckett’s. ‘What am I, some sort of social experiment?’
He leaned in closer.
‘I’m a human, not an animal,’ Knox said.
Your past would indicate otherwise. The thought was there in Beckett’s head immediately. He’d dealt with violent and difficult offenders before but Knox was different.
Knox had notoriety – a risk that Beckett wasn’t convinced was worth taking.
He sighed, and pinched the top of his nose. ‘The psychometric tests are there to help us understand your needs…’
‘Sure they are.’
‘…and everyone has to have the drug and alcohol tests,’ Beckett said, ignoring Knox’s interruption. ‘It’s routine and one of the conditions of your licence.’ He raised his eyes to Knox’s.
After a brief pause, Knox spoke. ‘I’ll just do as I’m told, I’m sure… After all, I have had fifteen years of practice.’
Janet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘How about a tour of the building, so you know where to find everything? Then, after you’ve settled, we’ll sit down and talk about what potential job training might be right for you?’
Knox shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’
*
After Knox had been shown the various areas on the ground floor, he was ushered into the kitchen. Knox barely listened as Beckett spoke to him.
He was more interested in looki
ng out of the windows that looked out into the back garden.
He stared at the tall fence around the perimeter.
Then his eyes rose to stare at the man who had just entered the kitchen, who stopped dead in his tracks, as if he hadn’t been expecting the kitchen to be quite so occupied.
He gave Knox the once over, grunted, then headed towards a cupboard and began to make himself some tea.
‘This is Devon,’ Beckett said to Knox.
The other man turned in their direction at the mention of his name, but he didn’t speak. He gave Knox a small nod, but his expression was less than friendly.
‘What did you do to end up here?’ Knox said.
Devon smiled to himself and turned his back on him.
Beckett visibly bristled, and gently touched Knox’s elbow, steering him from the room. ‘We don’t make it a habit to discuss personal information like that when we first meet people.’
They headed to the room next door. ‘The hostel can be quiet during the day. Some residents are on courses or working, so it won’t be until around six that you’ll start meeting the other residents, and I don’t recommend you start a conversation by asking what they’ve done,’ Beckett continued as they headed into a small room used for doing laundry.
Janet hung behind in the kitchen doorway until the others were out of earshot and turned to face Devon, who was now staring at her.
‘He doesn’t look like he’s made of much.’
‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. He’s more dangerous than he looks,’ she said.
Devon leaned his tall, heavy-set frame back against the kitchen worktop. His green eyes looked darker than usual and his brown hair needed a good wash. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he said.
‘What we discussed,’ Janet said, stepping out into the hall. ‘I’ll be around until late afternoon.’
She turned from Devon and followed Beckett and Knox as they climbed the stairs off the hallway to the sleeping quarters.
‘There’re five bedrooms on each floor,’ Beckett said to Knox. ‘You’ll be in room nine.’
Knox was barely listening. He leaned towards Janet, close enough to smell her perfume and enough to sneak a look down her blouse.
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