by Alex Smith
But that smell was definitely making him feel better.
He settled for opening his eyes, managing one and then the other. The response was a round of shrill cheers that was almost deafening. He recognised them instantly, breaking into a painful smile. By the time his vision had cleared Alice and Evie were on the bed, clambering up his torso in order to plant a hail of kisses on his face.
“Whoa! Whoa!” yelled DI Porter. The big man was wrestling with Moira, and by the look of it he was losing. The baby was doing her special move where she lifted her arms over her head, allowing herself to slip out of any grip like she’d been greased. Porter almost dropped her, his face a mask of panic as he lowered her to the floor.
Kett laughed, instantly regretting it.
“Easy,” he wheezed to the two older girls as they continued their loving assault. “Let your old man breathe.”
“Daddy! I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up,” said Alice, genuinely upset.
“How long have I been out?” said Kett, gently pushing them away with his good hand while searching the fog of his memories.
“Not long,” said Porter. “They’re not even serving breakfast yet. The girls have just got here. Like, five minutes ago. Clare’s wife dropped them off.”
“But it was a really scary five minutes,” said Alice, burrowing her head into his good shoulder.
“Okay, that’s quite enough,” said a nurse, walking into the room and whisking both girls off the bed in a single motion. “Your father is a very brave man, but he needs to rest. I’m sure your friend here will take you to visit the vending machine.”
Porter’s eyes widened.
“All of them?” he said. “At the same time?”
“Yeah, and you’d better be quick,” said Kett, nodding at Moira who was already waddling out the door. Alice and Evie chased after her, all three of them laughing their heads off—their dad already forgotten.
“Oh shit! Uh, I mean shittlesticks, no, shizzlesticks,” Porter spluttered as he followed. He turned back before he left. “Oh, I made you tea.”
“Seriously?” Kett said, the disappointment almost unbearable. He looked to the table beside the bed and sighed at the cup of milky nothingness that sat there feeling sorry for itself. It wasn’t hot, aromatic, or deliciously strong.
“I used three teabags!” Porter’s voice echoed down the hall.
“Did he empty the tea out of them first?” the nurse asked, raising an eyebrow. She smiled at Kett. “You took a bad puncture wound to the shoulder, but he missed your brachial artery by some way. The wound on your chest is just a slash, but it needed stitches and it will leave a scar. It will be a while before you’re carrying your girls again.”
There was a knock on the door, and an angry, hairy-nosed face loomed in.
“I hope it was worth it,” Kett said to the nurse. He turned to Superintendent Colin Clare. “Sir.”
Clare walked to the bed, and Kett was happy to see Savage right behind him. Neither of them had had any sleep, by the look of it, although Clare looked a lot worse for it than the young PC. Both of them smiled. At least, Kett thought Clare was smiling. It was hard to be sure because he still looked angry.
“The paper girls?” Kett asked.
“Alive,” said Clare. “All three of them, thank Christ. They’re being treated for dehydration. Those bastards didn’t feed them, and from the sound of it only Percival was giving them anything to drink—and hardly a drop at that. Delia Crossan had it worst, she was in that room for almost a week. I don’t know how she survived.”
“Girls are tougher than you think,” said Savage, perching on the end of the bed. Clare nodded.
“We found Connie in the basement with a bottle of Coke and some garlic bread,” he said. “You know what that was about?”
Kett tried to sit up and Clare helped, fluffing his pillows.
“I think each man was supposed to snatch and then kill one of the girls,” Kett said. “Figg picked Maisie, Stillwater was supposed to murder Delia. Connie was Percival’s, but he couldn’t do it. He hid her and lied to Figg. It was happening as we arrived. Any later and they’d be dead, I think.”
“That’s messed up,” said Clare. “Utterly. In all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever known anything like this.”
“It was all Figg,” said Kett. “He masterminded the whole thing. Did he survive?”
“Figg?” Clare laughed, but there wasn’t a lot of humour there. “No. We fished them both out of the tank. Figg died with shit in his lungs, he drowned in it.”
It was Kett’s turn to spit out a bitter laugh.
“The last thing I said to him was you’re full of shit,” he said.
“Well, I don’t believe in poetic justice,” Clare went on. “But hey, you can’t deny it in his case. Percival died of blood loss. I don’t even know how he did what he did. Maisie told us he jumped Figg, pushed him in?”
Kett sighed, then nodded.
You think I don’t know, but I do, I know where she—
Where she what? Had Figg been about to tell Kett where Billie had been taken? He would never know. But he had mentioned somebody, hadn’t he? The Pig Man? Or had Kett dreamed it after passing out?
No, he hadn’t dreamed it. It was a clue. It was a lead. It was hope.
I’ll find you.
He screwed his eyes shut, then opened them again to see Clare staring at the tea beside his bed with disgust.
“Porter’s been in then,” the boss said.
“He’s taken my girls for snacks,” Kett replied.
“Poor sod,” said Clare.
“Stillwater?” asked Kett. “What happened to him?”
“He’s alive,” said Savage. “Although he won’t be walking straight again. He’s in custody, looking at a long time in prison—not just for the abductions, but for the murder of Evelyn Crossan, too. Delia’s mother. No lawyer on earth will get him out of this one.”
“Good,” said Kett. “It’s over, then.”
“It’s over,” said Clare. “You did good. Both of you. Savage, I’m putting you on the carousel. The sooner you’re out of yellow and dressed in a suit, the better.”
“Thank you, sir,” Savage replied, beaming.
“I have no doubt that in ten years or so you’ll be running the place,” Clare went on.
“And me, sir?” Kett asked.
He was answered by a chorus of laughter as Moira waddled into the room, Alice and Evie on either side of her. Each of them was carrying a chocolate bar. Porter was close behind, panic-stricken.
“Are they all here? Where’s the baby? This is so fudging stressful!”
This time, even Clare laughed. He turned to Kett.
“Take some time,” he said. “Some real time. Spend it with the girls. You’ve earned it. And when you’re better, let’s talk.”
“About a new case?” Kett asked, and Clare pulled a face.
“Christ no! Let’s talk about getting your meddling arse back to London.”
The boss laughed, and so did Kett, clutching his shoulder as the pain burned out of it.
“Now, I’ve got to go fill in the paperwork to cover the gaping holes you two left in your wake,” Clare said, leaving the room. “But thank you, Robbie. Thank you, both of you. You saved those girls.”
Kett nodded to him, then closed his eyes again to give his brain a rest.
“Daddy, did you save them?” Evie asked through a mouthful of chocolate.
“He did,” Porter replied. “He’s a proper hero, your old man.”
“Give it up,” muttered Kett. “We all saved those girls.”
“Well I think you’re quite cool,” said Alice.
“Gee, thanks,” Kett replied, looking at his girls. God, how he loved them. “Quite cool works for me. Come here. I missed you all.”
They sat on the edge of the bed, and Porter dropped Moira into Kett’s lap. He hugged the baby, who was too interested in her Wispa to even notice.
“I won’t leave you again, okay?” he said. “I promise. From now on in, no more police work. Just family time.”
“Yay!” said Alice, leaning in for a cuddle.
“Ay!” echoed Moira.
“Yay,” added Evie. She frowned. “Daddy, I need a poo.”
“Of course you do,” he said.
“I’ll take her,” said Savage, holding out a hand and helping Evie to the floor.
“Thank you,” said Kett. “And I don’t just mean for this. Thank you for what you did back in the house. You saved me.”
She smiled, then led Evie to the door—looking back as she walked through it.
“See you in a minute,” she said. “And don’t worry, I’ll grab you a proper cup of tea on the way back.”
About the Author
Alex Smith wrote his first book when he was six. It wasn’t particularly good, but it did have some supernatural monsters in it. His latest book, Paper Girls, the first DCI Robert Kett thriller, has monsters in it too, although these monsters are very human, and all the more terrifying for it. In between these two books he has published twelve other novels for children and teenagers under his full name, Alexander Gordon Smith—including the number one bestselling series Escape From Furnace, which is loved by millions of readers worldwide and which is soon to become a motion picture. He lives in Norwich with his wife and three young daughters.
Find out more at alexsmithbooks.com
DCI Robert Kett will return in
BAD DOG
Preorder now, or read on for Chapter One…
BAD DOG
A DCI ROBERT KETT NOVEL
Some legends can kill you.
When a young woman is brutally murdered in the Norfolk countryside, the locals blame Black Shuck—a legendary wild dog.
There’s only one problem: the wounds weren’t made by an animal.
DCI Robert Kett is battling a black dog of his own. With his wife still missing, and the injuries from his last case leaving him in constant pain, everything seems impossible—not least looking after his three young children.
When a second body appears, even bloodier than the last, Kett finds himself on a hunt for one of the most ruthless serial killers the country has ever seen.
A killer who may be hunting him too.
You won't be able to put down this fast-paced British crime thriller from million-selling author Alex Smith.
Prologue
It just wasn’t the same without the dog.
Maurice had been a little bastard, sure. Half pug, half god only knew what else, he’d always been neck-deep in cow shit on their daily walks across the fields. He’d spent most of his life trying to hump every fence post, grassy hillock or bemused ewe he crossed paths with, even when he was pushing fourteen and his fur was more grey than black. Roger Carver had spent the best part of each walk either yelling at the dog, rescuing the dog, or carrying the dog home because his little legs were tired. He’d been a royal pain in the arse.
But what he wouldn’t give to have him back.
Roger sighed, a little more dramatically than he’d intended. The air was thick with dust, and the recently harvested corn stubble crunched beneath his boots. To his left the fields stretched for miles, bright and open, sighing with relief now that the weight had been lifted from them. To his right was the woodland, dark and ancient, the trees already burnished with oranges and browns. Autumn was well and truly here, and it was going to be a cold one. He’d lived in this part of the world long enough to be able to judge the seasons, even in the notoriously unpredictable East Anglian climate.
“Not enjoying yourself, then,” said Sally from half a dozen paces behind him. It sounded like an accusation, and when he glanced over his shoulder at her sour expression he knew that’s exactly how she’d intended it. He felt a sudden rush of anger—maybe even hatred—and he swallowed it down. He looked instinctively for the dog, that same awful hammerblow to his heart when he remembered Maurice wasn’t there. That he’d never be there again.
Stupid little bastard.
“I’m fine,” he said, hearing the passive aggression in his voice.
“Yes, you’re fine,” she shot back, thick with sarcasm. “You’re always fine.”
How had they got here, he and Sally? They’d only been together five years. Surely that wasn’t long enough for the foundations of their relationship to rot away. They were both young, he a couple of months north of thirty-five, she a few weeks south of it, with good jobs and no kids—no desire for kids, either. The world was theirs for the taking, and they’d been so keen to take it. Maurice had been their one commitment, the old dog the only thing keeping them on the leash. With him gone, anything was possible.
According to Sally, at least.
“Look,” she said. “You said it yourself, he was in pain. It was his time.”
They were approaching the end of the field, the ridges of hard soil threatening to turn their ankles. Ahead, where the corner of the field met the woodland, was a battered stile, and Roger knew that somewhere on that mouldering wood was a carving—Rog + Sal + Maurice 4 eva—that they’d made with Sal’s apartment key when they’d first started dating.
“I know,” Roger said. “It’s fine. I said it’s fine. What else do you want me to say? You killed my dog?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, but there was no taking them back. He heard Sally suck in a breath, braced himself for what was about to come. But she didn’t reply, and when he looked back he saw that she’d stopped walking. There was enough sun left overhead for it to shine in the tears that clustered in her eyes, that carved trails down her dusty cheeks.
“That’s what you think?” she said.
Roger shrugged, cleared his throat. He reached out and took hold of the stile, the wood damp to the touch.
“No,” he said. “But you insisted. You wouldn’t let it go. He could have had surgery, he might have had years left.”
Sally shook her head, her hands wrapped around her chest so tightly that her white coat looked like a straight jacket.
“He was dying,” she said. “The vet said so. I thought… I didn’t march you in there. I thought this is what you wanted?”
“It’s what you wanted,” Roger said. “It’s what you always wanted. You just wanted rid of him.”
He waited for the pleas, for the apologies, for the excuses. But instead the sadness that was etched into her expression became something else.
“Go fuck yourself, Roger,” she said.
She turned and walked away, stumbling in her welly boots.
“What?” Roger said, almost choking on the word. “No, fuck you. Bitch.”
He left her to it, clambering over the stile and pushing through the hawthorn bushes that grew on the far side. He made it three steps into the next field—the anger pulsing inside his head with every heartbeat, making the sky dance—before forcing himself to stop.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He was angry at Sally because she was right. Maurice had been on death’s door. Yes, they could have cut him open and sliced out enough of his cancer to keep him going, but he’d have been in constant pain, and he would have needed daily medication—and that’s only if he’d survived the operation and recovery period. The poor sod couldn’t even see any more, could barely shuffle further than a few feet. He’d had the most amazing life, and she was right—it had been the right time for him to go.
In the distance, he heard Sally scream in frustration. And this time he didn’t blame her. He was being an arsehole.
“Fuck,” he said again, turning and fighting his way back to the stile. “Sally!” he yelled. “Sal, wait up, I’m sorry.”
There was no sign of her in the field, which meant she had to have broken into a run. Roger set off after her, the ground crumbling beneath each step and making him feel like he was running in a dream, not getting anywhere. He kept his eyes down to navigate his route, staring so intently at the earth that he almost mi
ssed it—a flash of white in the trees to the left.
He stopped, his heartbeat the only sound in the world. For a second he thought he’d imagined it, but he squinted into the woods that edged the field and saw it again. Something white, moving fast.
“Sally!” he yelled. Why the hell was she going that way? It wasn’t exactly a forest, just a strip of woodland that stretched from their village down towards Bungay, but the trees were old, and they kept the last of the day at bay. Shadows crawled between their gnarled trunks, and Roger shivered in his Barbour jacket.
Just leave her, he thought. She’ll come around.
But he’d been in the wrong, and the longer he left it without an apology, the worse it would be.
“Sally!” he called, scrabbling up the low embankment and grabbing a branch. He hauled himself into the shade of a monstrous yew tree, the air instantly ten degrees cooler. Where had she gone?
He stepped carefully over the roots, blinking the harvest dust from his eyes and trying to make sense of the shifting darkness. There, a glimpse of something white, gone in an instant.
“I know you loved him,” Roger said, his words swallowed whole by the trees. “He loved you too. I’m sorry for what I said, I’m still upset.”
Her reply was a whisper, or maybe her voice too was rendered inaudible by the crushing weight of branches and leaves overhead. Roger hesitated, looking back. The field seemed further away than it should be, the day too dark. He’d never liked the woods, not since he was a kid and he’d got lost in Thetford Forest on a school trip—for less than an hour, but that was long enough when you were nine. Nothing made you feel smaller than the trees, nothing made you feel more vulnerable.