She Will Rescue You Read online

  SHE WILL

  RESCUE YOU

  An addictive crime thriller full of absolutely breathtaking twists

  CHRIS CLEMENT-GREEN

  First published 2019 by Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Chris Clement-Green to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Chris Clement-Green

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A Selection of Books You May Enjoy

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  This book is dedicated to all those who work to relieve animal suffering.

  PROLOGUE

  Sow a character and you may reap a destiny.

  It wasn’t right! The young girl felt squashed against the glass of her bedroom window, pinned like the big blue butterfly in a white picture frame her father had brought home from Brazil. She felt suffocated by both the closeness of the glass and what she had seen beyond it. How could the sun still shine when something so awful, so terrible, so wrong had just happened? The sky should be angry. It should turn dark — black even — and white-blue light should zig-zag down from giant clouds and strike him dead. Blow him up! Zap!

  If God wasn’t going to punish him, she would. Pushing herself free from the window’s magnetic force, the heat of her anger left small mirror palm-prints on the glass. She wrenched open her bedroom door and took the stairs two at a time, not caring that she sounded like a herd of elephants — she was creating the thunder God should have unleashed. Her rage bubbled and her mind raced with the rhythm of her running feet — I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.

  The quick repeated tap of leather on hot tarmac made the boy look up. He was still smiling to himself as he turned towards the sound, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sun. He knew it wasn’t an adult, adults didn’t sound like that, and there were no kids in this road bigger than him. He’d left the air rifle near the bush where he’d been hiding. Shading his eyes he watched as a small girl picked it up.

  The heat of her anger transferred from clammy, puppy-fat hands to the cool metal of trigger and barrel. She struggled to keep the gun raised and pointed at the boy’s head, but the weight of the weapon brought with it a sense of power. He might be twice her age but he suddenly looked worried — frightened even. He should be. An iron calm settled over the churning in the pit of her belly as she walked towards him and pulled the trigger.

  Pop. The soft sound the pellet made was not satisfying. It did not match her rage. But it was enough to make the boy curl away and the pellet hit his left shoulder rather than his startled face.

  There was no feeling of remorse or fear of what might happen next, only frustration that she’d missed what she’d been aiming for — the boy’s right eye. An eye for an eye, that’s what Miss Wright the Sunday school teacher had told them.

  CHAPTER ONE

  To find meaning in the debris of death.

  Mia loved murder; the more savage, more vindictive, more personal the better. Brutality left clues. Means and opportunity were about hard forensic facts, but motive was a fluid world of what-ifs and maybes.

  ‘You have reached your destination.’ The sat-nav sounded as tired as Mia felt.

  Switching off the engine, she stared at the village police station. She could see a neon-pink post-it-note stuck to the door, but there were no other signs of life. Not in the station and not in the village, which consisted of a single road that wound its way toward a vast open sky that was darkening by the minute. The stillness was eerie. This empty station, closed door policy was becoming the norm as the now anorexic blue line operated in a state of mild panic as officers chased their tails, continually slapping sticking plasters over wounds that needed stitching.

  Leaving the warm fug of her car, Mia pulled her favourite Armani coat tight as she read the note. It had been sellotaped in place, a precaution against the wind that whipped around her black-stockinged legs. It directed her to the station’s rear car park. Walking around the corner of the deserted building, a gust of wind slapped her in the face, forcing her to lower her head as protection against further assault. No barriers obstructed her and no cameras filmed her. This was truly ‘rural’. The wind dropped as she made a second turn into the shelter of the back yard, where a forty-foot beige porta-cabin took up all the available space. There were no windows but three steel steps led up to the only door at the end nearest her.

  Mia pulled at the metal door, taking care not to let the stiletto heels of her newest shoes fall through the grill-tops of each step. The door was surprisingly heavy and grated like an overblown sound effect from a black and white horror movie. But that was fine — horror was what waited inside.

  She was surprised to find the makeshift incident room both unlocked and unmanned . . . she corrected herself — unstaffed. The side with the grilled windows had been placed tight against the brick wall of the yard, so although it was only lunchtime the strip lighting buzzed like a fly against a window. Several opened laptops displayed dark screens. If she pressed a key a force-crested, password protected screensaver would appear. At least, she hoped it would.

  This was the first time Mia had ventured outside the hard geographical edges of urban policing, where crime and sirens were proof of life. Here, apart from the buzzing light, life was full of silence. Carrot-crunchers, that’s what city officers called rural cops, and they did appear very laid back — a little too relaxed. It was disconcerting, like the Mary (not as most people thought, Marie) Celeste. It reminded her of one of her recurring dreams, where she’d turn up for work but wouldn’t be able to find her office and no one recognised her.

  Chipped mugs littered the plastic folding tables being used as desks, t
ogether with half-eaten garage-bought sandwiches and pizza boxes containing only a greasy shadow of their contents. Something appeared to have interrupted lunch. She hoped it was something she’d be able to use. A new hum joined the light’s buzzing, and she looked at the fridge squatting in the corner to her right. It was starting to rust at its battered edge while its top supported a kettle, own brand tea and coffee and more dirty mugs.

  Squeezing between the tables, she headed for the horror. A whiteboard took up most of the furthest wall and was plastered with colour photos of the crime scene. She gazed with passive calm at the man hanging by his heels from some rather new-looking chains. He’d been found in a disused turkey shed some five miles from where she was standing. There had been little natural light in the shed, but CSI lights illuminated the body like a piece of Damien Hirst artwork; although it reminded her of a side of beef left to hang and mature.

  The injuries were extensive and excessively equal — no part of the body more or less damaged than any other. Blood had pooled and congealed on the concrete floor and there were blood-booted footprints all around the body, but each step had been deliberately twisted and smudged to disguise any sole pattern and size. These killers knew what they were doing. She could see no pulley mechanism to help raise the victim so high, which meant that more than one man was involved — unless the man in question was some sort of human mountain. It was definitely a man or men. A woman who felt this strongly would slash not beat. Less strength, more effect. Sharp fury replacing blunt trauma.

  The door grated and she turned to see a petite blonde in a new suit. ‘Doctor Langley?’

  ‘Mia, please — and you are?’

  ‘TDC Hudson. Gemma. Gem. It’s so great to meet you.’ The young girl let the wind slam the door closed behind her and she walked towards Mia with a big grin. ‘My first week and I’ve copped a murder!’ They shook hands.

  ‘Lucky you. Can I ask where the DI is?’

  ‘Oh, sorry — the boss sends her apologies. She’s at headquarters updating the ACC. She shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘So where’s everyone else?’

  The trainee detective constable looked puzzled. ‘Out on enquiries.’

  ‘It’s just that it looks like everyone left in a hurry.’ Mia swept her eyes around the room, knowing the girl’s gaze would follow hers.

  Gemma smiled. ‘They heard the DCI was en route — that’s all. Did you want a coffee?’ She shook a carton of milk: an explanation for her absence. ‘It’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s okay — although I’m not sure your DI will think it okay to leave an incident room unstaffed and unlocked.’

  Gemma’s eyes widened as she span round to see if anything was obviously missing. ‘Christ! I never gave it a thought! I only popped over to the station to get more milk. I was away a couple of minutes—’

  ‘Long enough for me to enter and have a good look round …’ Mia smiled to soften the point.

  ‘Will you tell the boss?’

  ‘No need . . . I don’t expect it’s a mistake you’ll repeat.’

  She watched the girl walk back towards the fridge, head down, her initial enthusiasm drained.

  Mistakes were okay — as long as you learned from them. She always had. Early on she had learnt that intelligence in a child is precocious; confidence in a student is arrogant and self-reliance in a beautiful woman disconcerting. At least in this line of work her intelligence was a bonus not a barrier; it was what she got paid for.

  ‘So, Gemma — Gem — how are you enjoying CID?’ Mia’s question echoed the length of the room.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Gem’s grin reinstated itself. ‘I’m learning so much! The boss says I’m like a sponge — soaking everything up.’ The kettle flicked off and she poured boiling water into what Mia hoped would be a clean mug. ‘But she wants me to contribute more; says she’ll pick me up and start squeezing if I don’t start adding something to the morning or evening briefings.’

  The door groaned and Mia watched Gemma’s face fall. A middle-aged DC was fighting the wind with a bitterness that made the battle look personal. He was obviously nearing retirement and puffed his way up the three steps with slow resentment. Mia turned back to the whiteboard, instinctively unwilling to engage with the cloud of negativity that surrounded him like a visible miasma. But, when he didn’t bother lowering his voice to ask, ‘Who’s the Barbie?’ she felt obliged to turn back and stare at him. He was leaning uncomfortably close to Gemma as he pretended to look for a usable mug.

  ‘Doctor Mia Langley is a forensic psychologist from the NCA.’

  She liked the girl’s defiant tone and the way she didn’t back down or shrink away from the DC’s invasion of her personal space.

  ‘What the fuck’s the NCA doing here?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her, Brian?’ Gemma pushed past him, taking care to keep the hot coffees between them.

  As the DC walked towards her, Mia noted hands shoved deep into pockets, an over-loose, snack-stained tie and the smell of stale beer and sweat. His shoulders were pushed back and his hips thrust forward in a proprietorial swagger. Bet this one’s always been led by his dick.

  ‘So, what brings the illustrious National Crime Agency to deepest Norfolk?’

  She held the DC’s stare. He had the pasty face and slack jawline of a man who spent too much time sitting indoors and eating the wrong kind of food. She’d immediately pegged him as old school CID — ‘Clowns in Disguise’ — detectives so jaded they wore their cynicism like an oak-cluster above their long service and good conduct medal.

  She gave him the briefest of smiles. ‘Your boss asked for help — so here I am.’

  The door grated. A tall woman in her late forties, perhaps early fifties, also struggled to keep it open against the persistent wind. Her age was hard to pinpoint as she had a gym-fit body and wore her height with unapologetic confidence. As she strode the length of the room, the heels of her boots made a declamatory clang against the bare metal floor. She had the look of all SIOs — business-like if slightly harassed. One arm was full of files but she held out her free hand in welcome.

  ‘Jayne Sykes. So glad you could make it, Doctor Langley. Come to help us with our probable Polish man?’ The DI’s grip made Mia wince. ‘Just Mia.’ She suspected the SIO had spent her early career trying too hard to fit in.

  The DI dumped her files on the table in front of the whiteboard, before perching on its edge next to Mia. ‘Pleased you can spare us the time. Is it racial?’

  ‘It’s certainly a valid line of enquiry with so many Eastern Europeans working at the farm, but most racial killings are spur-of-the-moment — an easy opportunity quickly taken. This was planned, as per the nice shiny chains.’ Mia pointed at the main photo.

  ‘Ah, you’ve noticed them. They’re the same ones used on the abattoir’s conveyor belt. They shouldn’t be anywhere near the turkey sheds where our man was found.’

  ‘So we know the killers came prepared.’

  ‘Killers?’ Gemma asked. ‘How do we know there was more than one?’ ‘God, Gemma,’ Brian plonked himself at a nearby desk, ‘read the fucking PM! The injuries are at different heights and angles.’

  ‘Seriously, Brian, watch your mouth, or you’ll find yourself back on volume crime.’ Jayne didn’t bother taking her eyes off the whiteboard.

  Gemma continued, ‘What’s to say it wasn’t one man moving about? By hoisting the body up so high, it makes it more mobile, like a game of swing-ball — you know, where you bat a ball around on the end of a rope.’

  ‘Good point — well made.’ Mia smiled at the TDC before turning to her boss. ‘Perhaps get NID to take a closer look at the injury patterns and strike angles—’

  ‘NID?’ Gemma was being sponge-like.

  ‘The National Injury Database,’ the DI winked at her. ‘Action that please, Brian.’

  Mia sipped her coffee. She hated instant. ‘The PM states cause of death as a single blow to the head.’

>   ‘Yep, although how the hell they can tell that when the body is such a frigging mess is beyond me.’ Jayne drummed a chewed biro against her teeth. ‘This level of injury is intense — especially when the PM states most of it happened post-mortem. It’s like they weren’t satisfied by just killing him; it’s like they wanted to remove his humanity as well as his identity. There’s so many missing and broken teeth dental records are useless.’ The DI’s face scrunched, as though she was reliving the victim’s pain.

  Brian made a boo-hoo face but was ignored. He hated being ignored.

  ‘Ask her about the turkey feather.’

  ‘Our knowing his identity isn’t an issue.’

  Mia drained her coffee — it had been a long drive. ‘The killers, or killer, were quite happy to leave recoverable fingerprints and I think the missing teeth are just a by-product of the violence.’ She held up her empty mug and shook it in Brian’s direction. ‘Any chance of a refill?’

  The DC turned away, but Gemma grabbed the mug and headed back to the kettle.

  Keen and decisive — that was the future of investigation right there: the willingness of the young to ask, act and adapt.

  ‘Make me one while you’re there, Gem,’ Jayne called.

  Gemma nodded and brought both women fresh coffees.

  The DI looked at Mia. ‘Fancy taking these outside? I need a fag.’

  Brian reached into his worn trouser pocket. ‘I’ll join you.’

  ‘Not until you’ve actioned that NID enquiry you won’t.’

  When Gemma grabbed her coat the DI said nothing.

  Outside, Jayne glanced up at the ever darkening sky, thankful it was still dry — cold but dry. In an effort to stop all their staff smoking, the force had refused to supply any shelter for its stubborn, time-wasting, nicotine addicts. She handed her coffee to Gemma and turned into the protection of the porta-cabin to light her cigarette. Straightening up, she took back the mug.